
/ 










COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT 






1 


* 























“suddenly ilse stepped from the sidewalk, wrenched the flag 

FROM THE BURLY JEW WHO CARRIED IT. . . ” 


[page 145 ] 


' The 

CRIMSON TIDE 

A Novel 


BY 

ROBERT W. CHAMBERS ' 

„ W 

AUTHOR OF THE COMMON LAW, “THE FIGHTING 
CHANCE,” “THE DANGER MARK,” ETC. 



ILLUSTRATED BY 
A. I. KELLER 


/ 


D. APPLETON AND COMPANY 

NEW YORK LONDON 

1919 

& 

'/XoL 






















X 

















































! 

♦ 

t 


" 

t 

v 




















I 


I’d rather walk with Margaret, 

I’d rather talk with Margaret, 

And anchor in some sylvan nook 
And fish Dream Lake with magic hook 
Than sit indoors and write this book. 

II 

An author’s such an ass, alas! 

To watch the world through window glass 
When out of doors the skies are fair 
And pretty girls beyond compare — • 

Like Margaret — are strolling there. 

III 

I’d rather walk with E. J. Bowes, 

I’d rather talk with E. J. Bowes, 

In woodlands where the sunlight gleams 
Across the golden Lake of Dreams 
Than drive a quill across these reams. 

IV 

If I could have my proper wish 
With these two friends I’d sit and fish 
Where sheer cliffs wear their mossy hoods 
And Dream Lake widens in the woods. 

But Fate says “No! Produce your goods!” 

ENVOI 

Inspect my goods and choose a few 
Dear Margaret, and Edward, too; 

Then sink them in the Lake of Dreams 
In dim, gold depths where sunshine streams 
Down from the sky’s unclouded blue, 

And I’ll be much obliged to you. 


R. W. C. 



ILLUSTRATIONS 


FACING 

PAGE 

“Suddenly Use stepped from the sidewalk, wrenched the flag 
from the burly Jew who carried it” . Frontispiece 

Beside her rode the novice xxxiv 

“You shall never see Bolshevism triumphant here” . . 230 

“I hate it as you hated the beasts who slew your friend” . 320 


' 




■ 



. 




























. 





















FOREWORD 


A N American ambulance going south stopped on 
the snowy road ; the driver, an American named 
Estridge, got out ; his companion, a young 
woman in furs, remained in her seat. 

Estridge, with the din of the barrage in his ears, 
went forward to show his papers to the soldiers who 
had stopped him on the snowy forest road. 

His papers identified him and the young woman; 
and further they revealed the fact that the ambulance 
contained only a trunk and some hand luggage; and 
called upon all in authority to permit John Henry 
Estridge and Miss Palla Dumont to continue without 
hindrance the journey therein described. 

The soldiers — Siberian riflemen — were satisfied and 
seemed friendly enough and rather curious to obtain 
a better look at this American girl, Miss Dumont, de- 
scribed in the papers submitted to them as “American 
companion to Marie, third daughter of Nicholas 
Romanoff, ex-Tzar.” 

An officer came up, examined the papers, shrugged. 
“Very well,” he said, “if authority is to be given this 
American lady to join the Romanoff family, now un- 
der detention, it is not my affair.” 

But he, also, appeared to be perfectly good natured 
about the matter, accepting a cigarette from Estridge 
and glancing at the young woman in the ambulance 
as he lighted it. 

“You know,” he remarked, “if it would interest you 


xi 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


and the young lady, the Battalion of Death is over 
yonder in the birch woods.” 

“The woman’s battalion?” asked Estridge. 

“Yes. They make their debut to-day. Would you 
like to see them? They’re going forward in a few 
minutes, I believe.” 

Estridge nodded and walked back to the ambulance. 

“The woman’s battalion is over in those birch woods, 
Miss Dumont. Would you care to walk over and see 
them before they leave for the front trenches?” 

The girl in furs said very gravely: 

“Yes, I wish to see women who are about to go into 
battle.” 

She rose from the seat, laid a fur-gloved hand on his 
offered arm, and stepped down onto the snow. 

“To serve,” she said, as they started together 
through the silver birches, following a trodden way, 
“is not alone the only happiness in life: it is the only 
reason for living.” 

“I know you think so, Miss Dumont.” 

“You also must believe so, who are here as a volun- 
teer in Russia.” 

“It’s a little more selfish with me. I’m a medical 
student; it’s a liberal education for me even to drive 
an ambulance.” 

“There is only one profession nobler than that prac- 
tised by the physician, who serves his fellow men,” 
she said in a low, dreamy voice. 

“Which profession do you place first?” 

“The profession of those who serve God alone.” 

“The priesthood?” 

“Yes. And the religious orders.” 

“Nuns, too?” he demanded with the slightest hint 
of impatience in his pleasant voice. 

xii 


FOREWORD 


The girl noticed it, looked up at him and smiled 
slightly. 

“Had my dear Grand Duchess not asked for me, I 
should now be entering upon my novitiate among the 
Russian nuns. . . . And she, too, I think, had there 
been no revolution. She was quite ready a year ago. 
We talked it over. But the Empress would not per- 
mit it. And then came the trouble about the Dea- 
conesses. That was a grave mistake ” 

She checked herself, then : 

“I do not mean to criticise the Empress, you un- 
derstand.” 

“Poor lady,” he said, “such gentle criticism would 
seem praise to her now.” 

They were walking through a pine belt, and in the 
shadows of that splendid growth the snow remained 
icy, so that they both slipped continually and she took 
his arm for security. 

“I somehow had not thought of you, Miss Dumont, 
as so austerely inclined,” he said. 

She smiled: “Because I’ve been a cheerful com- 
panion — even gay? Well, my gaiety made my heart 
sing with the prospect of seeing again my dearest 
friend — my closest spiritual companion — my darling 
little Grand Duchess. ... So I have been, naturally 
enough, good company on our three days’ journey.” 

He smiled : “I never suspected you of such extreme 
religious inclinations,” he insisted. 

“Extreme ?” 

“Well, a novice ” he hesitated. Then, “And 

you mean, ultimately, to take the black veil?” 

“Of course. I shall take it some day yet.” 

He turned and looked at her, and the man in him 
felt the pity of it as do all men when such fresh, vir- 
xiii 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


ginal youth as was Miss Dumont’s turns an enraptured 
face toward that cloister door which never again opens 
on those who enter. 

Her arm rested warmly and confidently within his ; 
the cold had made her cheeks very pink and had crisped 
the tendrils of her brown hair under the fur toque. 

“If,” she said happily, “you have found in me a 
friend, it is because my heart is much too small for all 
the love I bear my fellow beings.” 

“That’s a quaint thing to say,” he said. 

“It’s really true. I care so deeply, so keenly, for 
my fellow beings whom God made, that there seemed 
only one way to express it — to give myself to God and 
pass my life in His service who made these fellow crea- 
tures all around me that I love.” 

“I suppose,” he said, “that is one way of looking 
at it.” 

“It seemed to be the only way for me. I came to 
it by stages. . . . And first, as a child, I was im- 
pressed by the loveliness of the world and I used to sit 
for hours thinking of the goodness of God. And then 
other phases came — socialistic cravings and settlement 
work — but you know that was not enough. My heart 
was too full to be satisfied. There was not enough 
outlet.” 

“What did you do then?” 

“I studied: I didn’t know what I wanted, what I 
needed. I seemed lost ; I was obsessed with a desire to 
aid — to be of service. I thought that perhaps if I 
travelled and studied methods ” 

She looked straight ahead of her with a sad little 
reflective smile: 

“I have passed by many strange places in the world. 

. . . And then I saw the little Grand Duchess at the 


xiv 


FOREWORD 


Charity Bazaar. • . . We seemed to love each other 
at first glance. . . . She asked to have me for her 
companion. . . . They investigated. . . . And so I 
went to her.” 

The girl’s face became sombre and she bent her dark 
eyes on the snow as they walked. 

All the world was humming and throbbing with the 
thunder of the Russian guns. Flakes continually 
dropped from vibrating pine trees. A pale yellow 
haze veiled the sun. 

Suddenly Miss Dumont lifted her head : 

“If anything ever happens to part me from my 
friend,” she said, “I hope I shall die quickly.” 

“Are you and she so devoted?” he asked gravely. 

“Utterly. And if we can not some day take the 
vows together and enter the same order and the same 
convent, then the one who is free to do so is so pledged. 
... I do not think that the Empress will consent to 
the Grand Duchess Marie taking the veil. . . . And 
so, when she has no further need of me, I shall make 
my novitiate. . . . There are soldiers ahead, Mr. Es- 
tridge. Is it the woman’s battalion?” 

He, also, had caught sight of them. He nodded. 

“It is the Battalion of Death,” he said in a low voice. 
“Let’s see what they look like.” 

The girl-soldiers stood about carelessly, there in the 
snow among the silver birches and pines. They looked! 
like boys in overcoats and boots and tall wool caps, 
leaning at ease there on their heavy rifles. Some were 
only fifteen years of age. Some had been servants, 
some saleswomen, stenographers, telephone operators, 
dress-makers, workers in the fields, students at the uni- 
versity, dancers, laundresses. And a few had been 
bora into the aristocracy. 


xv 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


They came, too, from all parts of the huge, sprawl- 
ing Empire, these girl-soldiers of the Battalion of 
Death — and there were Cossack girls and gypsies 
among them — girls from Finland, Courland, from the 
Urals, from Moscow, from Siberia — from North, 
South, East, West. 

There were Jewesses from the Pale and one Jewess 
from America in the ranks; there were Chinese girls, 
Poles, a child of fifteen from Trebizond, a Japanese 
girl, a French peasant lass ; and there were Finns, too, 
and Scandinavians — all with clipped hair under the 
astrakhan caps — sturdy, well shaped, soldierly girls 
who handled their heavy rifles without effort and car- 
ried a regulation equipment as though it were a sheaf 
of flowers. 

Their commanding officer was a woman of forty. 
She lounged in front of the battalion in the snow, con- 
sulting with half a dozen officers of a man’s regiment. 

The colour guard stood grouped around the battal- 
ion colours, where its white and gold folds swayed lan- 
guidly in the breeze, and clots of virgin snow fell upon 
it, shaken down from the pines by the cannonade. 

Estridge gazed at them in silence. In his man’s 
mind one thought dominated — the immense pity of it 
all. And there was a dreadful fascination in looking 
at these girl soldiers, whose soft, warm flesh was so 
soon to be mangled by shrapnel and slashed by bay- 
onets. 

“Good heavens,” he muttered at last under his 
breath. “Was this necessary?” 

“The men ran,” said Miss Dumont. 

“It was the filthy boche propaganda that demoral- 
ised them,” rejoined Estridge. “I wonder — are 
women more level headed? Is propaganda wasted on 
xvi 


FOREWORD 


these girl soldiers? Are they really superior to the 
male of the species?” 

“I think,” said Miss Dumont softly, “that their spir- 
itual intelligence is deeper.” 

“They see more clearly, morally?” 

“I don’t know. ... I think so sometimes. ... We 
women, who are born capable of motherhood, seem to 
be fashioned also to realise Christ more clearly — and 
the holy mother who bore him. ... I don’t know if 
that’s the reason — or if, truly, in us a little flame 
burns more constantly — the passion which instinctively 
flames more brightly toward things of the spirit than of 
the flesh. ... I think it is true, Mr. Estridge, that, 
unless taught otherwise by men, women’s inclination 
is toward the spiritual, and the ardour of her passion 
aspires instinctively to a greater love until the lesser 
confuses and perplexes her with its clamorous impor- 
tunity.” 

“Woman’s love for man you call the lesser love?” he 
asked. 

“Yes, it is, compared to love for God,” she said 
dreamily. 

Some of the girl-soldiers in the Battalion of Death 
turned their heads to look at this young girl in furs, 
who had come among them on the arm of a Red Cross 
driver. 

Estridge was aware of many bib brown eyes, many 
grey eyes, some blue ones fixed on him and on his com- 
panion in friendly or curious inquiry. They made him 
think of the large, innocent eyes of deer or channel 
cattle, for there was something both sweet and wild 
as well as honest in the gaze of these girl-soldiers. 

One, a magnificent blond six-foot creature with the 
peaches-and-cream skin of Scandinavia and the clipped 
xvii 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


gold hair of the northland, smiled at Miss Dumont, 
displaying a set of superb teeth. 

“ You have come to see us make our first charge ?” 
she asked in Russian, her sea-blue eyes all a-sparkle. 

Miss Dumont said “Yes,” very seriously, looking at 
the girl’s equipment, her blanket roll, gas-mask, boots 
and overcoat. 

Estridge turned to another girl-soldier: 

“And if you are made a prisoner?” he enquired in 
a low voice. “Have you women considered that?” 

“Nechevo,” smiled the girl, who had been a Red 
Cross nurse, and who wore two decorations. She 
touched the red and black dashes of colour on her 
sleeve significantly, then loosened her tunic and drew 
out a tiny bag of chamois. “We all carry poison,” 
she said smilingly. “We know the boche well enough 
to take that precaution.” 

Another girl nodded confirmation. They were per- 
fectly cheerful about it. Several others drew near and 
showed their little bags of poison slung around their 
necks inside their blouses. Many of them wore holy 
relics and medals also. 

Miss Dumont took Estridge’s arm again and looked 
over at the big blond girl-soldier, who also had been 
smilingly regarding her, and who now stepped forward 
to meet them halfway. 

“When do you march to the first trenches?” asked 
Miss Dumont gravely. 

“Oh,” said the blond goddess, “so you are English?” 
And she added in English : “I am Swedish. You have 
arrived just in time. I t*lnk we go forward immedi- 
ately.” 

“God go with you, for Russia,” said Miss Dumont 
in a clear, controlled voice. 

xviii 


FOREWORD 


But Estridge saw that her dark eyes were suddenly 
brilliant with tears. The big blond girl-soldier saw 
it, too, and her splendid blue eyes widened. Then, 
somehow, she had stepped forward and taken Miss Du- 
mont in her strong arms ; and, holding her, smiled and 
gazed intently at her. 

“You must not grieve for us,” she said. “We are 
not afraid. We are happy to go.” 

“I know,” said Palla Dumont; and took the girl- 
soldier’s hands in hers. “What is your name?” she 
asked. 

“Use Westgard. And yours?” 

“Palla Dumont.” 

“English? No?” 

“American.” 

“Ah ! One of our dear Americans ! Well, then, you 
shall tell your countrymen that you have seen many 
women of many lands fighting rifle in hand, so that the 
boche shall not strangle freedom in Russia. Will you 
tell them, Palla?” 

“If I ever return.” 

“You shall return. I, also, shall go to America. 
I shall seek for you there, pretty comrade. We shall 
become friends. Already I love you very dearly.” 

She kissed Palla Dumont on both cheeks, holding her 
hands tightly. 

“Tell me,” she said, “why you are in Russia, and 
where you are now journeying?” 

Palla looked at her steadily: “I am the American 
companion to the Grand Duchess Marie; and I am 
journeying to the village where the Imperial family is 
detained, because she has obtained permission for me 
to rejoin her.” 

There was a short silence; the blue eyes of the 
xix 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


Swedish girl had become frosty as two midwinter stars. 
Suddenly they glimmered warm again as twin violets : 

“Kharasho !” she said smiling. “And do you love 
your little comrade duchess?” 

“Next only to God.” 

“That is very beautiful, Palla. She is a child to 
be enlightened. Teach her the greater truth.” 

“She has learned it, Ilse.” 

“She?” 

“Yes. And, if God wills it, she, and I also, take the 
vows some day.” 

“The veil !” 

“Yes.” 

“You! A nun!” 

“If God accepts me.” 

The Swedish girl-soldier stood gazing upon her as 
though fascinated, crushing Palla’s slim hands between 
her own. 

Presently she shook her head with a wearied smile: 

“That,” she said, “is one thing I can not understand 
■ — the veil. No. I can understand this ” turn- 

ing her head and glancing proudly around her at her 
girl comrades. “I can comprehend this thing that I 
am doing. But not what you wish to do, Palla. Not 
such service as you offer.” 

“I wish to serve the source of all good. My heart 
is too full to be satisfied by serving mankind alone.” 

The girl-soldier shook her head: “I try to under- 
stand. I can not. I am sorry, because I love you.” 

“I love you, Ilse. I love my fellows.” 

After another silence: 

“You go to the imperial family?” demanded Ilse 
abruptly. 


xx 


FOREWORD 


“Yes.” 

“I wish to see you again. I shall try.” 

The battalion marched a few moments later. 

It was rather a bad business. They went over the 
top with a cheer. Fifty answered roll call that night. 

However, the hun had learned one thing — that 
women soldiers were inferior to none. 

Russia learned it, too. Everywhere battalions were 
raised, uniformed, armed, equipped, drilled. In the 
streets of cities the girl-soldiers became familiar 
sights: nobody any longer turned to stare at them. 
There were several dozen girls in the officers’ school, 
trying for commissions. In all the larger cities there 
were infantry battalions of girls, Cossack troops, ma- 
chine gun units, signallers; they had a medical corps 
and transport service. 

But never but once again did they go into action. 
And their last stand was made facing their own peo- 
ple, the brain-crazed Reds. 

And after that the Battalion of Death became only 
a name; and the girl-soldiers bewildered fugitives, 
hunted down by the traitors who had sold out to the 
Germans at Brest-Litovsk. 





PREFACE 


A DOOR opened; the rush of foggy air set the 
flames of the altar candles blowing wildly. 
There came the clank of armed men. 

Then, in the dim light of the chapel, a novice sprang 
to her feet, brushing the white veil from her pallid 
young face. 

At that the ex-Empress, still kneeling, lifted her 
head from her devotions and calmly turned it, looking 
around over her right shoulder. 

The file of Red infantry advanced, shuffling slowly 
forward as though feeling their way through the can- 
dle-lit dusk across the stone floor. Their accoutre- 
ments clattered and clinked in the intense stillness. A 
slovenly officer, switching a thin, naked sword in his 
ungloved fist, led them. Another officer, carrying a 
sabre and marching in the rear, halted to slam and 
lock the heavy chapel door; then he ran forward to 
rejoin his men, while the chapel still reverberated with 
the echoes of the clanging door. 

A chair or two fell, pushed aside by the leading sol- 
diers and hastily kicked out of the way as the others 
advance more swiftly now. For there seemed to be 
some haste. These men were plainly in a hurry, what- 
ever their business there might be. ^ 

The Tzesarevitch, kneeling beside his mother, got 
up from his knees with visible difficulty. The Empress 
also rose, leisurely, supporting herself by one hand 
resting on the prie-dieu. 

xxiii 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


Then several young girls, who had been kneeling be- 
hind her at their devotions, stood up and turned to 
stare at the oncoming armed men, now surrounding 
them. 

The officer carrying the naked sword, and reek- 
ing with fumes of brandy, counted these women in a 
loud, thick voice. 

“That’s right,” he said. “You’re all present — one! 
two ! three ! four! five! six ! — the whole accursed brood!” 
pointing waveringly with his sword from one to an- 
other. 

Then he laughed stupidly, leering out of his inflamed 
eyes at the five women who all wore the garbs of the 
Sisters of Mercy, their white coiffes and tabliers con- 
trasting sharply with the sombre habits of the Rus- 
sian nuns who had gathered in the candle-lit dusk be- 
hind them. 

“What do you wish?” demanded the ex-Empress in a 
fairly steady voice. 

“Answer to your names!” retorted the officer bru- 
tally. The other officer came up and began to fumble 
for a note book in the breast of his dirty tunic. When 
he found it he licked the lead of his pencil and squinted 
at the ex-Empress out of drunken eyes. 

“Alexandra Feodorovna!” he barked in her face. 
“If you’re here, say so!” 

She remained calm, mute, cold as ice. 

A soldier behind her suddenly began to shout: 

“That’s the German woman. That’s the friend of 
the Staretz Novykh! That’s Sascha! Now we’ve got 
her, the thing to do is to shoot her ” 

“Mark her present,” interrupted the officer in com- 
mand. “No ceremony, now. Mark the cub Roman- 
off present. Mark ’em all — Olga, Tatyana, Marie, 
xxiv 


PREFACE 


Anastasia ! — no matter which is which — they’re all Ro- 
manoffs ” 

But the same soldier who had interrupted before 
bawled out again: “They’re not Romanoffs! There 
are no German Romanoffs. There are no Romanoffs 
in Russia since a hundred and fifty years ” 

The little Tzesarevitch, Alexis, red with anger, 
stepped forward to confront the man, his frail hands 
fiercely clenched. The officer in command struck him 
brutally across the breast with the flat of his sword, 
shoved him aside, strode toward the low door of the 
chapel crypt and jerked it open. 

“Line them up!” he bawled. “We’ll settle this Ro- 
manoff dispute once for all! Shove them into line! 
Hurry up, there!” 

But there seemed to be some confusion between the 
nuns and the soldiers, as the latter attempted to sepa- 
rate the ex-Empress and the young Grand Duchesses 
from the sisters. 

“What’s all that trouble about !” cried the officer 
commanding. “Drive back those nuns, I tell you ! 
They’re Germans, too ! They’re Sascha’s new Dea- 
conesses ! Kick ’em out of the way !” 

Then the novice, who had cried out in fear when the 
Red infantry first entered the chapel, forced her way 
out into the file formed by the Empress and her daugh- 
ters. 

“There’s a frightful mistake!” she cried, laying one 
hand on the arm of a young girl dressed, like the oth- 
ers, as a Sister of Mercy. “This woman is Miss Du- 
mont* my American companion! Release her! I am 
the Grand Duchess Marie!” 

The girl, whose arm had been seized, looked at the 
young novice over her shoulder in a dazed way ; then, 
xxv 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


suddenly her lovely face flushed scarlet; tears sprang 
to her eyes; and she said to the infuriated officer: 

“It is not true, Captain ! I am the Grand Duchess 
Marie. She is trying to save me !” 

“What the devil is all this row!” roared the officer, 
who now came tramping and storming among the pris- 
oners, switching his sword to and fro with ferocious 
impatience. 

The little Sister of Mercy, frightened but resolute, 
pointed at the novice, who still clutched her by the 
arm : “It is not true what she tells you,” she repeated. 
“I am the Grand Duchess Marie, and this novice is my 
American companion, Miss Dumont, who loves me de- 
votedly and who now attempts to sacrifice herself in 
my place ” 

“I am the Grand Duchess Marie!” interrupted the 
novice excitedly. “This young girl dressed like a Sis- 
ter of Mercy is only my American companion-* ” 

“Damnation !” yelled the officer. “I’ll take you 
both, then!” But the girl in the Sister of Mercy’s 
garb turned and violently pushed the novice from her 
so that she stumbled and fell on her knees among the 
nuns. 

Then, confronting the officer: “You Bolshevik 
dog,” she said contemptuously, “don’t you even know 
the daughter of your dead Emperor when you see 
her!” And she struck him across the face with her 
prayer book. 

As he recoiled from the blow a soldier shouted: 
“There’s your proof ! There’s your insolent Romanoff 
for you ! To hell with the whole litter ! Shoot them !” 
Instantly a savage roar from the Reds filled that dim 
place; a soldier violently pushed the young Tzesare- 
vitch into the file behind the Empress and held him 
xxvi 


PREFACE 


3 


there ; the Grand Duchess Olga, was flung bodily after 
him ; the other children, in their hospital dresses, were 
shoved brutally toward their places, menaced by butt 
and bayonet. 

“March!” bawled the officer in command. 

But now, among the dark-garbed nuns, a slender 
white figure was struggling frantically to free herself : 

“You red dogs!” she cried in an agonised voice. 
“Let that English woman go! It is I you want! Do 
you hear! I mock at you! I mock at your resolu- 
tion! Boje Tzaria Khrani! Down with the Bolshe- 
viki !” 

A soldier turned and fired at her ; the bullet smashed 
an ikon above her head. 

“I am the Grand Duchess Marie!” she sobbed. “I 
demand my place! I demand my fate! Let that 
American girl go! Do you hear what I say? Red 
beasts ! Red beasts ! I am the Grand Duchess ! ” 

The officer who closed the file turned savagely and 
shook his heavy cavalry sabre at her: “I’ll come back 
in a moment and cut your throat for you !” he yelled. 

Then, in the file, and just as the last bayonets were 
vanishing through the crypt door, one of the young 
girls turned and kissed her hand to the sobbing novice 
— a pretty gesture, tender, gay, not tragic, even al- 
most mischievously triumphant. 

It was the adieu of the Grand Duchess Tatyana to 
the living world — her last glimpse of it through the 
flames of the altar candles gilding the dead Christ on 
his jewelled cross — the image of that Christ she was 
so soon to gaze upon when those lovely, mischievous 
young eyes of hers unclosed in Paradise. . . . 

The door of the crypt slammed. A terrible silence 
reigned in the chapel. 

xxvii 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


Then the novice uttered a cry, caught the foot of 
the cross with desperate hands, hung there convul- 
sively. 

To her the Mother Superior turned, weeping. But 
at her touch the girl, crazed with grief, lifted both 
hands and tore from her own face the veil of her no- 
vitiate just begun; — tore her white garments from 
her shoulders, crying out in a strangled voice that if a 
Christian God let such things happen then He was no 
God of hers — that she would never enter His service 
• — that the Lord Christ was no bridegroom for her; 
and, her novitiate was ended — ended together with 
every vow of chastity, of humility, of poverty, of even 
common humanity which she had ever hoped to take. 

The girl was now utterly beside herself ; at one mo- 
ment flaming and storming with fury among the ter- 
rified, huddling nuns ; the next instant weeping, stamp- 
ing her felt-shod foot in ungovernable revolt at this 
horror which any God in any heaven could permit. 

And again and again she called out on Christ to 
stop this thing and prove Himself a real God to a pa- 
gan world that mocked Him. 

Dishevelled, her rent veil in tatters on her naked 
shoulders, she sprang across the chapel to the crypt 
door, shook it, tore at it, seized chair after chair and 
shattered them to splinters against the solid panels 
of oak and iron. 

Then, suddenly motionless, she crouched and lis- 
tened. 

“Oh, Mother of God !” she panted, “intervene now 
— now ! — or never !’* 

The muffled rattle of a rather ragged volley answered 
her prayer. 


xxviii 


PREFACE 


Outside the convent a sentry — a Kronstadt sailor — 
stood. He also heard the underground racket. He 
nodded contentedly to himself. Other shots followed 
- — pistol shots — singly. 

After a few moments a wisp of smoke from the crypt 
crept lazily out of the low oubliettes. The day was 
grey and misty; rain threatened; and the rifle smoke 
clung low to the withered grass, scarcely lifting. 

The sentry lighted a third cigarette, one eye on the 
barred oubliettes, from which the smoke crawled and 
spread out over the grass. 

After a while a sweating face appeared behind the 
bars and a half-stifled voice demanded why there was 
any delay about fetching quick-lime. And, still cling- 
ing to the bars with bloody fingers, he added: 

“There’s a damned novice in the chapel. I prom- 
ised to cut her throat for her. Go in and get her and 
bring her down here.” 

The novice was nowhere to be found. 

They searched the convent thoroughly; they went 
out into the garden and beat the shrubbery, kicking 
through bushes and saplings, their cocked rifles poised 
for a snap shot. 

Peasants, gathering there more thickly now, watched 
them stupidly; the throng increased in the convent 
grounds. Some Bolshevik soldiers pushed through the 
rapidly growing crowd and ran toward a birch wood 
east of the convent. Beyond the silvery fringe of 
birches, larger trees of a heavy, hard-wood forest 
loomed. Among these splendid trees a number of 
beeches were being felled on both sides of the road. 

“Did you see a White Nun run this way?” demanded 
xxix 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


the soldiers of the wood-cutters. The latter shook 
their heads: 

' “Nothing has passed,” they said seriously, “except 
some Ural Cossacks riding north like lost souls in a 
hurricane.” 

An officer of the Red battalion, who had now has- 
tened up with pistol swinging, flew into a frightful 
rage : 

“Cossacks!” he bellowed. “You cowardly dogs, 
what do you mean by letting Kaledines’ horsemen gal- 
lop over you like that — you with your saws and axes — 
twenty lusty comrades to block the road and pull the 
Imperialists off their horses ! Shame ! For all I know 
you’ve let a Romanoff escape alive into the world! 
That’s probably what you’ve done, you greasy louts !” 

The wood-cutters gaped stupidly ; the Bolshevik of- 
ficer cursed them again and gesticulated with his pis- 
tol. Other soldiers of the Red battalion ran up. One 
nudged the officer’s elbow without saluting: 

“That other prisoner can’t be found ” 

“What! That Swedish girl!” yelled the officer. 

Several soldiers began speaking excitedly: 

“While we were in the cellar, they say she ran 
away ” 

“Yes, Captain, while we were about that business in 
the crypt, Kaledines’ horsemen rode up outside ” 

“Who saw them?” demanded the officer hoarsely. 
“God curse you, who saw them?” 

Some peasants had now come up. One of them 
began: 

“Your honour, I saw Prince Kaledines’ riders ” 

“ Whose r 

“The Hetman’s ” 

“Your honour! Prince Kaledines! The Hetman! 


PREFACE 


Damnation ! Who do you think you are ! Who do 
you think I am!” burst out the Red officer in a fury. 

“Get out of my way! ” He pushed the peasants 

right and left and strode away toward the convent. 
His soldiers began to straggle after him. One of them 
winked at the wood-cutters with his tongue in his cheek, 
and slung the rifle he carried over his right shoulder 
en bandouliere , muzzle downward. 

“The Tavarish is in a temper,” he said with a jerk 
of his thumb toward the officer. “We arrested that 
Swedish girl in the uniform of the woman’s battalion. 
One shoots that breed on sight, you know. But we 

were in such a hurry to finish with the Romanoffs ” 

He shrugged: “You see, comrades, we should have 
taken her into the crypt and shot her along with the 
Romanoffs. That’s how one loses these birds — they’re 
off if you turn your back to light a cigarette in the 
wind.” 

One of the wood-cutters said: “Among Kaledines’ 
horsemen were two women. One was crop-headed like 
a boy, and half naked.” 

“A White Nun?” 

“God knows. She had some white rags hanging to 
her body, and dark hair clipped like a boy’s.” 

“That — was — she!” said the soldier with slow con- 
viction. He turned and looked down the long per- 
spective of the forest road. Only a raven stalked 
there all alone over the fallen leaves. 

“Certainly,” he said, “that was our White Nun. 
The Cossacks took her with them. They must have 
ridden fast, the horsemen of Kaledines.” 

“Like a swift storm. Like the souls of the damned,” 
replied a peasant. 

The soldier shrugged: “If there’s still a Romanoff 
xxxi 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


loose in the world, God save the world ! . . . And that 
big heifer of a Swedish wench! — she was a bad one, 
I tell you ! — Took six of us to catch her and ten to 
hold her by her ten fingers and toes ! Hey ! God 
bless me, but she stands six feet and is made of steel 
cased in silk — all white, smooth and iron-hard — the 
blond young snow-tiger that she is ! — the yellow-haired, 
six-foot, slippery beastess! God bless me — God bless 
me!” he muttered, staring down the wood-road to its 
vanishing point against the grey horizon. 

Then he hitched his slung rifle to a more comfort- 
able position, turned, gazed at the convent across the 
fields, which his distant comrades were now approach- 
ing. 

“A German nest,” he said aloud to himself, “full of 
their damned Deaconesses ! Hey ! I’ll be going along 
to see what’s to be done with them, also!” 

He nodded to the wood-cutters: 

“Vermin-killing time,” he remarked cheerily. “After 
the dirty work is done, peace, land enough for every- 
body, ease and plenty and a full glass always at one’s 
elbows — eh, comrades ?” 

He strode away across the fields. 

It had begun to snow. 


XXXll 


ARGUMENT 


f g ^HE Cossacks sang as they rode: 

“Life is against us 
We are born crying: 

Life that commenced us 
Leaves us all dying. 

We were born crying; 

We shall die sighing. 

“Shall we sit idle? 

Follow Death’s dance I 
Pick up your bridle. 

Saddle and lance! 

Cossacks, advance!” 

They were from the Urals: they sat their shaggy 
little grey horses, lance in hand, stirrup deep in sad- 
dle paraphernalia — kit-bags, tents, blankets, trusses of 
straw, a dead fowl or two or a quarter of beef. And 
from every saddle dangled a balalaika and the terrible 
Cossack whip. 

The steel of their lances flashed red in the setting 
sun; snow whirled before the wind in blinding pinkish 
clouds, powdering horse and rider from head to heel. 

Again one rider unslung his balalaika, struck it, 
looking skyward as he rode: 

“Stars in your courses. 

This is our answer; 

Women and horses. 

Singer and dancer 

Fall to the lancer! 

That is your answer! 

xxxiii 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


“Though the Dark Raider 

Rob us of joy 

Death, the Invader, 

Come to destroy 

Nichevo! Stoi!” 

They rode into a forest, slowly, filing among the 
silver birches, then trotting out amid the pines. 

The Swedish girl towered in her saddle, dwarfing 
the shaggy pony. She wore her grey wool cap, over- 
coat, and boots. Pistols bulged in the saddle holsters ; 
sacks of grain and a bag of camp tins lay across pom- 
mel and cantle. 

Beside her rode the novice, swathed to the eyes in a 
sheepskin greatcoat, and a fur cap sheltering her 
shorn head. 

Her lethargy — a week’s reaction from the horrors of 
the convent — had vanished; and a feverish, restless 
alertness had taken its place. 

Nothing of the still, white novice was visible now in 
her brilliant eyes and flushed cheeks. 

Her tragic silence had given place to an unnatural 
loquacity; her grief to easily aroused mirth; and the 
dark sorrow in her haunted eyes was gone, and they 
grew brown and sunny and vivacious. 

I She talked freely with her comrade, Ilse Westgard; 
!she exchanged gossip and banter with the Cossacks, 
argued with them, laughed with them, sang with them, 
i At night she slept in her sheepskin in Ilse West- 
gard’s vigorous arms; morning, noon and evening she 
filled the samovar with snow beside Cossack fires, or 
in the rare cantonments afforded in wretched villages, 
where whiskered and filthy mujiks cringed to the Cos- 
sacks, whispering to one another: “There is no end 


xxxiv 


* 









BESIDE HER RODE THE NOVICE 




































% 



























■— -j. . 


j 


i • / • • 



« 













* # 







•ARGUMENT 


to death ; there is no end to the fighting and the dying, 
God bless us alL There is no end,” 

In the glare of great fires in muddy streets she 
stood, swathed in her greatcoat, her cap pushed back, 
looking like some beautiful, impudent boy, while the 
Cossacks sang “Lada oy Lada!” — . let their slant- 
ing eyes wander sideways toward her, till her frank 
laughter set the singers grinning and the gusli was 
laid aside. 

And once, after a swift gallop to cross a railroad 
and an exchange of shots with the Red guards at long 
range, the sotnia of the Wild Division rode at evening 
into a little hamlet of one short, miserable street, and 
shouted for a fire that could be seen as far as Moscow. 

That night they discovered vodka — not much — 
enough to set them singing first, then dancing. The 
troopers danced together in the fire-glare — clumsily, 
in their boots, with interims of the pas seul savouring 
of the capers of those ancient Mongol horsemen in the 
Hezars of Genghis Khan. 

But no dancing, no singing, no clumsy capers were 
enough to satisfy these riders of the Wild Division, 
now made boisterous by vodka and horse-meat. Gos- 
sip crackled in every group; jests flew; they shouted 
at the peasants; they roared at their own jokes. 

“Comrade novice! — Pretty boy with a shorn head!” 
they bawled. “Harangue us once more on law and 
love.” 

She stood with legs apart and thumbs hooked in her 
belt, laughing at them across the fire. And all around 
crowded the wretched mujiks , peering at her through 
shaggy hair, out of little wolfish eyes. 

A Cossack shouted: “My law first! Land for all! 
That is what we have, we Cossacks! Land for the 


xxxv 


•ARGUMENT 


to death ; there is no end to the fighting and the dying, 
God bless us alL There is no end,” 

In the glare of great fires in muddy streets she 
stood, swathed in her greatcoat, her cap pushed back, 
looking like some beautiful, impudent boy, while the 
Cossacks sang “Lada oy Lada!” — . let their slant- 
ing eyes wander sideways toward her, till her frank 
laughter set the singers grinning and the gusli was 
laid aside. 

And once, after a swift gallop to cross a railroad 
and an exchange of shots with the Red guards at long 
range, the sotnia of the Wild Division rode at evening 
into a little hamlet of one short, miserable street, and 
shouted for a fire that could be seen as far as Moscow. 

That night they discovered vodka — not much — 
enough to set them singing first, then dancing. The 
troopers danced together in the fire-glare — clumsily, 
in their boots, with interims of the pas seul savouring 
of the capers of those ancient Mongol horsemen in the 
Hezars of Genghis Khan. 

But no dancing, no singing, no clumsy capers were 
enough to satisfy these riders of the Wild Division, 
now made boisterous by vodka and horse-meat. Gos- 
sip crackled in every group; jests flew; they shouted 
at the peasants; they roared at their own jokes. 

“Comrade novice! — Pretty boy with a shorn head!” 
they bawled. “Harangue us once more on law and 
love.” 

She stood with legs apart and thumbs hooked in her 
belt, laughing at them across the fire. And all around 
crowded the wretched mujiks , peering at her through 
shaggy hair, out of little wolfish eyes. 

A Cossack shouted: “My law first! Land for all! 
That is what we have, we Cossacks! Land for the 


xxxv 


•ARGUMENT 


to death ; there is no end to the fighting and the dying, 
God bless us alL There is no end,” 

In the glare of great fires in muddy streets she 
stood, swathed in her greatcoat, her cap pushed back, 
looking like some beautiful, impudent boy, while the 
Cossacks sang “Lada oy Lada!” — . let their slant- 
ing eyes wander sideways toward her, till her frank 
laughter set the singers grinning and the gusli was 
laid aside. 

And once, after a swift gallop to cross a railroad 
and an exchange of shots with the Red guards at long 
range, the sotnia of the Wild Division rode at evening 
into a little hamlet of one short, miserable street, and 
shouted for a fire that could be seen as far as Moscow. 

That night they discovered vodka — not much — 
enough to set them singing first, then dancing. The 
troopers danced together in the fire-glare — clumsily, 
in their boots, with interims of the pas seul savouring 
of the capers of those ancient Mongol horsemen in the 
Hezars of Genghis Khan. 

But no dancing, no singing, no clumsy capers were 
enough to satisfy these riders of the Wild Division, 
now made boisterous by vodka and horse-meat. Gos- 
sip crackled in every group; jests flew; they shouted 
at the peasants; they roared at their own jokes. 

“Comrade novice! — Pretty boy with a shorn head!” 
they bawled. “Harangue us once more on law and 
love.” 

She stood with legs apart and thumbs hooked in her 
belt, laughing at them across the fire. And all around 
crowded the wretched mujiks , peering at her through 
shaggy hair, out of little wolfish eyes. 

A Cossack shouted: “My law first! Land for all! 
That is what we have, we Cossacks! Land for the 


xxxv 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


L .. T™ ■ ■ ■■ — 

a nun at all, now, save for the virginal allure that 
seemed a part of the girl. 

“There is only one law, Tavarishi,” she said, turning 
slightly from her hips as she spoke, to include those be- 
hind her in the circle: “and that law was not made 
by man. That law was born, already made, when the 
first man was born. It has never changed. It com- 
prehends everything; includes everything and every- 
body; it solves all perplexity, clears all doubts, de- 
cides all questions. 

“It is a living law; it exists; it is the key to every 
problem ; and it is all ready for you.” 

The girl’s face had altered; the half mischievous 
audacity in defiance of her situation — the gay, impu- 
dent confidence in herself and in these wild comrades 
of hers, had given place to something more serious, 
more ardent — the youthful intensity that smiles 
through the flaming enchantment of suddenly discov- 
ered knowledge. 

“It is the oldest of all laws,” she said. “It was bom 
perfect. It is yours if you accept it. And this law 
is the Law of Love.” 

A peasant muttered: “One gives where one loves.” 

The girl turned swiftly: “That is the soul of the 
Law!” she cried, “to give! Is there any other hap- 
piness, Tavarishi? Is there any other peace? Is 
there need of any other law? 

“I tell you that the Law of Love slays greed ! And 
when greed dies, war dies. And hunger, and misery 
die, too! 

“Of what use is any government and its lesser laws 
and customs, unless it is itself governed by that para- 
mount Law? 

“Of what avail are your religions, your churches, 
xxxviii 


ARGUMENT 


your priests, your saints, relics, ikons — all your can- 
dles and observances — unless dominated by that Law? 

“Of what use is your God unless that Law of Love 
also governs Him?” 

She stood gazing at the firelit faces, the virginal 
half-smile on her bps. 

A peasant broke the silence: “Is she a new saint, 
then?” he said distinctly. 

A Cossack nodded to her, grinning respectfully: 

“We always like your sermons, little novice,” he 
said. And, to the others: “Nobody wishes to deny 
what she says is quite true” — he scratched his head, 
still grinning — “only — while there are Kurds in the 
world ” 

“And Bolsheviki!” shouted another. 

“True! And Turks! God bless us, Tavarishi,” he 
added with a wry face, “it takes a stronger stomach 
to love these beasts than is mine ” 

In the sudden shout of laughter the girl, Palla, 
looked around at her comrade, Use. 

“Until each accepts the Law of Love,” said the 
Swedish girl-soldier, laughing, “it can not be a law.” 

“I have accepted it,” said Palla gaily ; but her child- 
ishly lovely mouth was working, and she clenched her 
hands in her sleeves to- control the tremor. 

Silent, the smile still stamped on her tremulous lips, 
she stood for a few moments, fighting back the deep 
emotions enveloping her in surging fire — the same 
ardent and mystic emotions which once had consumed 
her at the altar’s foot, where she had knelt, a novice, 
dreaming of beatitudes ineffable. 

If that vision, for her, was ended — its substance but 
the shadow of a dream — the passion that created it, 
the fire that purified it, the ardent heart that needed 
xxxix 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


love — love sacred, love unalloyed — needed love still, 
burned for it, yearning to give. 

As she lifted her head and looked around her with 
dark eyes still a little dazed, there was a sudden com- 
motion among the mujiks; a Cossack called out some- 
thing in a sharp voice ; their officer walked hastily out 
into the darkness ; a shadowy rider spurred ahead of 
him. 

Suddenly a far voice shouted: “Who goes there! 

Stoir 

Then red flashes came out of the night ; Cossacks ran 
for their horses ; Ilse appeared with Palla’s pony as 
well as her own, and halted to listen, the fearless smile 
playing over her face. 

“Mount !” cried many voices at once. “The Reds !” 

Palla flung herself astride her saddle; Ilse galloped 
beside her, freeing her pistols ; everywhere in the star- 
light the riders of the Wild Division came galloping, 
loosening their long lances as they checked their horses 
in close formation. 

Then, with scarcely a sound in the unbroken snow, 
they filed away eastward at a gentle trot, under the 
pale lustre of the stars. 


xl 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


CHAPTER I 

O N the 7th of November, 1917, the Premier of 
the Russian Revolutionary Government was a 
hunted fugitive, his ministers in prison, his 
troops scattered or dead. Three weeks later, the ir- 
responsible Reds had begun their shameful career of 
treachery, counselled by a pallid, black-eyed man with 
a muzzle like a mouse — one L. D. Bronstein, called 
Trotzky; and by two others — one a bald, smooth- 
shaven, rotund little man with an expression that made 
men hesitate, and features not trusted by animals and 
children. 

The Red Parliament called him Vladimir Ulianov, 
and that’s what he called himself. He had proved to 
be reticent, secretive, deceitful, diligent, and utterly 
unhuman. His lower lip was shaped as though some- 
thing dripped from it. Blood, perhaps. His eyes 
were brown and not entirely unattractive. But God 
makes the eyes ; the mouth is fashioned by one’s self. 
The world knew him as Lenine. 

The third man squinted. He wore a patch of sparse 
cat-hairs on his chin and upper lip. 

His head was too big; his legs too short, but they 
were always in a hurry, always in motion. He had a 
1 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


persuasive and ardent tongue, and practically no 
mind. The few ideas he possessed inclined him to vio- 
lence — always the substitute for reason in this sort of 
agitator. It was this ever latent violence that proved 
persuasive. His name was Krylenko. His smile was 
a grin. 

These three men betrayed Christ on March 3d, 1918. 

On the Finland Road, outside of Petrograd, the 
Red ragamuffins held a perpetual carmagnole, and all 
fugitives danced to their piping, and many paid for 
the music. 

But though White Guards and Red now operated in 
respectively hostile gangs everywhere throughout the 
land, and the treacherous hun armies were now in full 
tide of their Baltic invasion, there still remained ways 
and means of escape — inconspicuous highways and un- 
guarded roads still open that led out of that white 
hell to the icy but friendly seas clashing against the 
northward coasts. 

Diplomats were inelegantly “beating it.” A kindly 
but futile Ambassador shook the snow of Petrograd 
from his galoshes and solemnly and laboriously van- 
ished. Mixed bands of attaches, consular personnel, 
casuals, emissaries, newspaper men, and mission spe- 
cialists scattered into unfeigned flight toward those 
several and distant sections of “God’s Country,” di- 
vided among civilised nations and lying far away some- 
where in the outer sunshine. 

Sometimes White Guards caught these fugitives; 
sometimes Red Guards ; and sometimes the hun nabbed 
them on the general hunnish principle that whatever 
is running away is fair game for a pot shot. 

Even the American Red Cross was “suspect” — 
treachery being alleged in its relations with Roumania ; 

2 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


and hun and Bolshevik became very troublesome — so 
troublesome, in fact, that Estridge, for example, was 
having an impossible time of it, arrested every few 
days, wriggling out of it, only to be collared again and 
detained. 

Sometimes they questioned him concerning gun-run- 
ning into Roumania; sometimes in regard to his part 
in conducting the American girl. Miss Dumont, to the 
convent where the imperial family had been detained. 

That the de facto government had requested him to 
undertake this mission and to employ an American 
Red Cross ambulance in the affair seemed to make no 
difference. 

He continued to be dogged, spied on, arrested, de- 
tained, badgered, until one evening, leaving the Smolny, 
he encountered an American — a slim, short man who 
smiled amiably upon him through his glasses, removed 
a cigar from his lips, and asked Estridge what was the 
nature of his evident and visible trouble. 

So they walked back to the hotel together and set- 
tled on a course of action during the long walk. What 
this friend in need did and how he did it, Estridge 
never learned ; but that same evening he was instructed 
to pack up, take a train, and descend at a certain 
station a few hours later. 

Estridge followed instructions, encountered no in- 
terference, got off at the station designated, and 
waited there all day, drinking boiling tea. 

Toward evening a train from Petrograd stopped at 
the station, and from the open door of a compartment 
Estridge saw his chance acquaintance of the previous 
day making signs to him to get aboard. 

Nobody interfered. They had a long, cold, un- 
pleasant night journey, wedged in between two sol- 
3 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


diers wearing arm-bands, who glowered at a Russian 
general officer opposite, and continued to mutter xo 
each other about imperialists, bourgeoisie, and cadets. 

At every stop they were inspected by lantern light, 
their papers examined, and sometimes their luggage 
opened. But these examinations seemed to be per- 
functory, and nobody was detained. 

In the grey of morning the train stopped and some 
soldiers with red arm-bands looked in and insulted the 
general officer, but offered no violence. The officer 
gave them a stony glance and closed his cold, puffy 
eyes in disdain. He was blond and looked like a Ger- 
man. 

At the next stop Estridge received a careless nod 
from his chance acquaintance, gathered up his luggage 
and descended to the frosty platform. 

Nobody bothered to open their bags; their papers 
were merely glanced at. They had some steaming tea 
and some sour bread together. 

A little later a large sleigh drove up behind the sta- 
tion; their light baggage was stowed aboard, they 
climbed in under the furs. 

“Now,” remarked his calm companion to Estridge, 
“we’re all right if the Reds, the Whites and the boches 
don’t shoot us up.” 

“What are the chances?” inquired Estridge. 

“Excellent, excellent,” said his companion cheerily, 
“I should say we have about one chance in ten to get 
out of this alive. I’ll take either end — ten to one 
we don’t get out — ten to two we’re shot up and not 
killed — ten to three we are arrested but not killed — 
one to ten we pull through with whole skins.” 

4 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


Estridge smiled. They remained silent, probably 
preoccupied with the hazards of their respective for- 
tunes. It grew colder toward noon. 

The young man seated beside Estridge in the sleigh 
smoked continually. 

He was attached to one of the American missions 
sent into Russia by an optimistic administration — a 
mission, as a whole, foredoomed to political failure. 

In every detail, too, it had already failed, excepting 
only in that particular part played by this young man, 
whose name was Brisson. 

He, however, had gone about his occult business in 
a most amazing manner — the manner of a Yankee who 
knows what he wants and what his country ought to 
want if it knew enough to know it wanted it. 

He was the last American to leave Petrograd: he 
had taken his time ; he left only when he was quite ready 
to leave. 

And this was the man, now seated beside Estridge, 
who had coolly and cleverly taken his sporting chance 
in remaining till the eleventh hour and the fifty-ninth 
minute in the service of his country. Then, as the 
twelfth hour began to strike, he bluffed his way 
through. 

During the first two or three days of sleigh travel, 
Brisson learned all he desired to know about Estridge, 
and Estridge learned almost nothing about Brisson 
except that he possessed a most unholy genius for 
wriggling out of trouble. 

Nothing, nobody, seemed able to block this young 
man’s progress. He bluffed his way through White 
Guards and Red; he squirmed affably out of the 
clutches of wandering Cossacks; he jollied officials of 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


all shades of political opinion; but he always contin- 
ued his journey from one etape to the next. Also, he 
was continually lighting one large cigar after another. 
Buttoned snugly into his New York-made arctic cloth- 
ing, and far more comfortable at thirty below zero than 
was Estridge in Russian costume, he smoked comfort- 
ably in the teeth of the icy gale or conversed soundly 
on any topic chosen. And the range was wide. 

But about himself and his mission in Russia he never 
conversed except to remark, once, that he could buy 
better Russian clothing in New York than in Petro- 
grad. 

Indeed, his only concession to the customs of the 
country was in the fur cap he wore. But it was the 
galoshes of Manhattan that saved his feet from freez- 
ing. He had two pair and gave one to Estridge. 

During several hundreds of miles in sleighs, Bris- 
son’s constant regret was the absence of ferocious 
wolves. He desired to enjoy the whole show as de- 
picted by the geographies. He complained to Es- 
tridge quite seriously concerning the lack of enterprise 
among the wolves. 

But there seemed to be no wolves in Russia suffi- 
ciently polite to oblige him; so he comforted himself 
by patting his stomach where, sewed inside his outer 
underclothing, reposed documents destined to electrify 
the civilised world with proof infernal of the treach- 
ery of those three men who belong in history and in 
hell to the fraternity which includes Benedict Arnold 
and Judas. 

One late afternoon, while smoking his large cigar 
and hopefully inspecting the neighbouring forest for 
wolves, this able young man beheld a sotnia of Ural 
6 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


Cossacks galloping 1 across the snow toward the flying 
sleigh, where he and Estridge sat so snugly ensconced. 

There was, of course, only one thing to do, and that 
was to halt. Kaledines had blown his brains out, but 
his riders rode as swiftly as ever. So the sleigh 
stopped. 

And now these matchless horsemen of the Wild Di- 
vision came galloping up around the sleigh. Brilliant 
little slanting eyes glittered under shaggy head-gear; 
broad, thick-lipped mouths split into grins at sight of 
the two little American flags fluttering so gaily on 
the sleigh. 

Then two booted and furred riders climbed out of 
their saddles, and, under their sheepskin caps, Brisson 
saw the delicate features of two young women, one a 
big, superb, blue-eyed girl; the other slim, dark-eyed, 
and ivory-pale. 

The latter said in English: “Could you help us? 
We saw the flags on your sleigh. We are trying to 
leave the country. I am American. My name is 
Palla Dumont. My friend is Swedish and her name 
is Ilse Westgard.” 

“Get in, any way,” said Brisson briskly. “We can’t 
be in a worse mess than we are. I imagine it’s the 
same case with you. So if we’re all going to smash, 
it’s pleasanter, I think, to go together.” 

At that the Swedish girl laughed and aided her 
companion to enter the sleigh. 

“Good-bye !” she called in her clear, gay voice to the 
Cossacks. “When we come back again we shall ride 
with you from Vladivostok to Moscow and never see 
an enemy!” 

When the young women were comfortably ensconced 
in the sleigh, the riders of the Wild Division crowded 

7 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


their horses around them and shook hands with them 
English fashion. 

“When you come back,” they cried, “you shall find 
us riding through Petrograd behind KornilofF !” And 
to Brisson and Estridge, in a friendly manner: “Come 
also, comrades. We will show you a monument made 
out of heads and higher than the Kremlin. That 
would be a funny joke and worth coming back to see.” 

Brisson said pleasantly that such an exquisite jest 
would be well worth their return to Russia. 

[Everybody seemed pleased ; the Cossacks wheeled 
their shaggy mounts and trotted away into the woods, 
singing. The sleigh drove on. 

“This is very jolly,” said Brisson cheerfully. “Wher- 
ever we’re bound for, now, we’ll all go together.” 

“Is not America the destination of your long jour- 
ney ?” inquired the big, blue-eyed girl. 

Brisson chuckled : “Yes,” he said, “but bullets some- 
times shorten routes and alter destinations. I think 
you ought to know the worst.” 

“If that’s the worst, it’s nothing to frighten one,” 
said the Swedish girl. And her crystalline laughter 
filled the icy air. 

She put one persuasive arm around her slender, 
dark-eyed comrade: 

“To meet God unexpectedly is nothing to scare one, 
is it, PallaP” she urged coaxingly. 

The other reddened and her eyes flashed: “WHiat 
God do you mean?” she retorted. “If I have any- 
thing to say about my destination after death I shall 
go wherever love is. And it does not dwell with the 
God or in the Heaven that we have been taught to de- 
sire and hope for.” 

The Swedish girl patted her shoulder and smiled 

8 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


in good humoured deprecation at Brisson and Estridge. 

“God let her dearest friend die under the rifles of 
the Reds,” she explained cheerfully, “and my little 
comrade can not reconcile this sad affair with her faith 
in Divine justice. So she concludes there isn’t any such 
thing. And no Divinity.” She shrugged: “That is 
what shakes the faith in youth — the seeming indiffer- 
ence of the Most High.” 

Palla Dumont sat silent. The colour had died out 
in her cheeks, her dark, indifferent eyes became fixed. 

Estridge opened the fur collar of his coat and pulled 
hack his fur cap. 

“Do you remember me?” he said to Ilse Westgard. 

The girl laughed: “Yes, I remember you, now!” 

To Palla Dumont he said : “And do you remember ?” 

At that she looked up incuriously; leaned forward 
slowly ; gazed intently at him ; then she caught both 
his hands in hers with a swift, sobbing intake of 
breath. 

“You are John Estridge,” she said. “You took me 
to her in your ambulance!” She pressed his hands 
almost convulsively, and he felt her trembling under 
the fur robe. 

“Is it true,” he said, “ — that ghastly tragedy?” 

“Yes.” 

“All died?” 

“All.” 

Estridge turned to Brisson: “Miss Dumont was 
companion to the Grand Duchess Marie,” he said in 
brief explanation. 

Brisson nodded, biting his cigar. 

The Swedish girl-soldier said: “They were devoted 
— the little Grand Duchess and Palla. ... It 
9 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


was horrible, there in the convent cellar — those young 

girls ” She gazed out across the snow; then, 

“The Reds who did it had already made me prisoner. 

. . . They arrested me in uniform after the decree 

disbanding us. ... I was on my way to join 
Kaledines’ Cossacks — a rendezvous . . . Well, 
the Reds left me outside the convent and went in to do 
their bloody work. And I gnawed the rope and ran 
into the chapel to hide among the nuns. And there I 

saw a White Nun — quite crazed with grief ” 

“I had heard the volley that killed her,” said Palla, 
in explanation, to nobody in particular. She sat star- 
ing out across the snow with dry, bright eyes. 

Brisson looked askance at her, looked significantly 
at the Swedish girl, Ilse Westgard: “And what hap- 
pened then?” he inquired, with the pleasant, imper- 
sonal manner of a physician. 

Ilse said: “Palla had already begun her novitiate. 
But what happened in those terrible moments changed 
her utterly. ... I think she went mad at the 
moment. . . . Then the Superior came to me 

and begged me to hide Palla because the Bolsheviki 
had promised to return and cut her throat when they 
had finished their bloody business in the crypt . . . 

So I caught her up in my arms and I ran out into the 
convent grounds. And at that very moment, God be 
thanked, a sotnia of the Wild Division rode up looking 
for me. And they had led horses with them. And w» 
were in the saddle and riding like maniacs before I 
could think. That is all, except, an hour ago we saw 
your sleigh.” 

“You have been hiding with the Cossacks ever since!” 
exclaimed Estridge to Palla. 

“That is her history,” replied Ilse, “and mine. And,” 

10 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


she added cheerfully but tenderly, “my little comrade, 
here, is very, very homesick, very weary, very deeply and 
profoundly unhappy in the loss of her closest friend. 
. . . and perhaps in the loss of her faith in God.” 

“I am tranquil and I am not unhappy,” — said Palla. 
“And if I ever win free of this murderous country I 
shall, for the first time in my life, understand what 
the meaning of life really is. And shall know how 
to live.” 

“You thought you knew how to live when you took 
the white veil,” said Ilse cheerfully. “Perhaps, after 
all, you may make other errors before you learn the 
truth about it all. Who knows? You might even care 
to take the veil again ” 

“Never!” cried Palla in a clear, hard little voice, 
tinged with the scorn and anger of that hot revolt 
which sometimes shakes youth to the very source of 
its vitality. 

Ilse said very calmly to Estridge: “With me it is 
my reason and not mere hope that convinces me of 
God’s existence. I try to reason with Palla because 
one is indeed to be pitied who has lost belief in God ” 

“You are mistaken,” said Palla drily; “ — one merely 
becomes one’s self when once the belief in that sort 
of God is ended.” 

Use turned to Brisson: “That,” she said, “is what 
seems so impossible for some to accept — so terrible — 
the apparent indifference, the lack of explanation — 
God’s dreadful reticence in this thunderous whirlwind 
of prayer that storms skyward day and night from 
our martyred world.” 

Palla, listening, sat forward and said to Brisson: 
“There is only one religion and it has only two pre- 
cepts — love and give! The rest — the forms, obser- 
11 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


vances, creeds, ceremonies, threats, promises, are man- 
made trash! 

“If man’s man-made God pleases him, let him wor- 
ship him. That kind of deity does not please me. I 
no longer care whether He pleases me or not. He no 
longer exists as far as I am concerned.” 

Brisson, much interested, asked Palla whether the 
void left by descredited Divinity did not bewilder her. 

“There is no void,” said the girl. “It is already 
filled with my own kind of God, with millions of Gods 
— my own fellow creatures.” 

“Your fellow beings?” 

“Yes.” 

“You think your fellow creatures can fill that void?” 

“They have filled it.” 

Brisson nodded reflectively: “I see,” he said politely, 
“you intend to devote your life to the cult of your 
fellow creatures.” 

“No, I do not,” said the girl tranquilly, “but I 
intend to love them and live my life that way unhamp- 
ered.” She added almost fiercely: “And I shall love 
them the more because of their ignorant faith in an 
all-seeing and tender and just Providence which does 
not exist! I shall love them because of their tragic 
deception and their helplessness and their heart-break- 
ing unconsciousness of it all.” 

Ilse Westgard smiled and patted Palla’s cheeks: 
“All roads lead ultimately to God,” she said, “and yours 
is a direct route though you do not know it.” 

“I tell you I have nothing in common with the God 
you mean,” flashed out the girl. 

Brisson, though interested, kept one grey eye on 
duty, ever hopeful of wolves. It was snowing hard 
now — a perfect geography scene, lacking only the 
12 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


wolves; but the etape was only half finished. There 
might be hope. 

The rather amazing conversation in the sleigh also 
appealed to him, arousing all his instincts of a veteran 
newspaper man, as well as his deathless curiosity — that 
perpetual flame which alone makes any intelligence 
vital. 

Also, his passion for all documents — those sewed 
under his underclothes, as well as these two specimens 
of human documents — were now keeping his lively in- 
terest in life unimpaired. 

“Loss of faith,” he said to Palla, and inclined to- 
ward further debate, “must be a very serious thing for 
any woman, I imagine.” 

“I haven’t lost faith in love,” she said, smilingly 
aware that he was encouraging discussion. 

“But you say you have lost faith in spiritual love — ” 

“I did not say so. I did not mean the other kind of 
love when I said that love is sufficient religion for me.” 

“But spiritual love means Deity ” 

“It does not ! Can you imagine the all-powerful 
father watching his child die, horribly — and never lift- 
ing a finger! Is that love? Is that power? Is that 
Deity?” 

“To penetrate the Divine mind and its motives for 
not intervening is impossible for us ” 

“That is priest’s prattle ! Also, I care nothing now 
about Divine motives. Motives are human, not divine. 
So is policy. That is why the present Pope is un- 
worthy of respect. He let his flock die. He deserted 
his Cardinal. He let the hun go unrebuked. He be- 
trayed Christ. I care nothing about any mind weak 
enough, politic enough, powerless enough, to ignore 
love for motives ! 


IS 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


“One loves, or one does not love. Loving is giv- 
ing — ” The girl sat up in the sleigh and the thicken- 
ing snow-flakes drove into her flushed face. “Loving 
is giving,” she repeated, “ — giving life to love ; giving 
up life for love — giving! giving! always giving! — 
always forgiving! That is love! That is the only 
God! — the indestructible, divine God within each one 
of us!” 

Brisson appraised her with keen and scholarly 
eyes. “Yet,” he said pleasantly, “you do not forgive 
God for the death of your friend. Don’t you practise 
your faith?” 

The girl seemed nonplussed; then a brighter tint 
stained her cheeks under the ragged sheepskin cap. 

“Forgive God!” she cried. “If there really existed 
that sort of God, what would be the use of forgiving 
what He does? He’d only do it again. That is His 
record!” she added fiercely, “ — indifference to human 
agony, utter silence amid lamentations, stone deaf, 
stone dumb, motionless. It is not in me to fawn and 
lick the feet of such an image. No! It is not in me 
to believe it alive, either. And I do not ! But I know 
that love lives : and if there be any gods at all, it must 
be that they are without number, and that their sub- 
stance is of that immortality born inside us, and which 
we call love! Otherwise, to me, now, symbols, signs, 
saints, rituals, vows — these tilings, in my mind, are all 
scrapped together as junk. Only, in me, the warm 
faith remains — that within me there lives a god of 
sorts — perhaps that immortal essence called a soul — 
and that its only name is love. And it has given us 
only one law to live by — the Law of Love !” 

Brisson’s cigar had gone out. He examined it at- 

U 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


tentively and found it would be worth relighting when 
opportunity offered. 

Then he smiled amiably at Palla Dumont: 

“What you say is very interesting,” he remarked. 
But he was too polite to add that it had been equally 
interesting to numberless generations through the many 
many centuries during which it all had been said 
before, in various ways and by many, many people. 

Lying back in his furs reflectively, and deriving a 
rather cold satisfaction from his cigar butt, he let his 
mind wander back through the history of theocracy 
and of mundane philosophy, mildly amused to recog- 
nize an ancient theory resurrected and made passion- 
ately original once more on the red lips of this young 
girl. 

But the Law of Love is not destined to be solved 
so easily ; nor had it ever been solved in centuries dead 
by Egyptian, Mongol, or Greek — by priest or prin- 
cess, prophet or singer, or by any vestal or acolyte 
of love, sacred or profane. 

No philosophy had solved the problem of human 
woe; no theory convinced. And Brisson, searching 
leisurely the forgotten corridors of treasured lore, be- 
came interested to realise that in all the history of 
time only the deeds and example of one man had in- 
vested the human theory of divinity with any real 
vitality — and that, oddly enough, what this girl 
preached — what she demanded of divinity — had been 
both preached and practised by that one man alone — 
Jesus Christ. 

Turning involuntarily toward Palla, he said: “Can’t 
you believe in Him, either?” 

She said: “He was one of the Gods. But He was 
no more divine than any in whom love lives. Had He 
15 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


been more so, then He would still intervene to-day! 
He is powerless. He lets things happen. And we our- 
selves must make it up to the world by love. There is 
no other divinity to intervene except only our own 
hearts.” 

But that was not, as the young girl supposed, her 
fixed faith, definite, ripened, unshakable. It was a phase 
already in process of fading into other phases, each 
less stable, less definite, and more dangerous than the 
other, leaving her and her ardent mind and heart 
always unconsciously drifting toward the simple, prim- 
itive and natural goal for which all healthy bodies 
are created and destined — the instinct of the human 
being to protect and perpetuate the race by the great 
Law of Love. 

Brisson’s not unkindly cynicism had left his lips 
edged with a slight smile. Presently he leaned back 
beside Estridge and said in a low voice: 

“Purely pathological. Ardent religious instinct 
astray and running wild in consequence of nervous dis- 
locations due to shock. Merely over-storage of superb 
physical energy. Intellectual and spiritual wires over- 
crowded. Too many volts. . . . That girl ought 

to have been married early. Only a lot of children can 
keep her properly occupied. Only outlet for her kind. 
Interesting case. Contrast to the Swedish girl. Fine, 
handsome, normal animal that. She could pick me up 
between thumb and finger. Great girl, Estridge.” 

“She is really beautiful,” whispered Estridge, glanc- 
ing at Use. 

“Yes. So is Mont Blanc. That sort of beauty — 
the super-sort. But it’s the other who is pathologi- 
cally interesting because her wires are crossed and 
16 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


there’s a short circuit somewhere. Who comes in con- 
tact with her had better look out.” 

“She’s wonderfully attractive.” 

“She is. But if she doesn’t disentangle her wires 
and straighten out she’ll burn out. . . . What’s 

that ahead? A wolf!” 

It was the rest house at the end of the etape — a 
tiny, distant speck on the snowy plain. 

Brisson leaned over and caught Palla’s eye. Both 
smiled. 

“Well,” he said, “for a girl who doesn’t believe in 
anything, you seem cheerful enough.” 

“I am cheerful because I do believe in everything 
and in everybody.” 

Brisson laughed: “You shouldn’t,” he said. “Great 
mistake. Trust in God and believe nobody — that’s the 
idea. Then get married and close your eyes and see 
what God will send you!” 

The girl threw back her pretty head and laughed. 

“Marriage and priests are of no consequence,” she 
said, “but I adore little children!”; 


CHAPTER II 


T HEY were a weary, half-starved and travel- 
stained quartette when the Red Guards stopped 
them for the last time in Russia and passed 
them through, warning them that the White Guards 
would surely do murder if they caught them. 

The next day the White Guards halted them, but 
finally passed them through, counselling them to keep 
out of the way of the Red Guards if they wished to 
escape being shot at sight. 

In the neat, shiny, carefully scrubbed little city of 
Helsingfors they avoided the huns by some miracle — 
one of Brisson’s customary miracles — but another little 
company of Americans and English was halted and de- 
tained, and one harmless Yankee among them was ar- 
rested and packed off to a hun prison. 

Also, a large and nervous party of fugitives of 
mixed nationalities and professions — consuls, charges, 
attaches, and innocent, agitated citizens — was sum- 
marily grabbed and ordered into indefinite limbo. 

But Brisson’s daily miracles continued to material- 
ise, even in the land of the Finn. By train, by sleigh, 
by boat, his quartette floundered along toward safety, 
and finally emerged from the white hell of the Red 
people into the sub-arctic sun — Estridge with pain- 
fully scanty luggage, Palla Dumont with none at all, 
18 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


Ilse Westgard carrying only her Cossack saddle-bags, 
and Brisson with his damning papers still sewed inside 
his clothes, and owing Estridge ten dollars for not 
getting murdered. 

They all had become excellent comrades during those 
anxious days of hunger, fatigue and common peril, but 
they were also a little tired of one another, as becomes 
all friends when subjected to compulsory companion- 
ship for an unreasonable period. 

And even when one is beginning to fall in love, one 
can become surfeited with the beloved under such cir- 
cumstances. 

Besides, Estridge’s budding sentiment for Ilse West- 
gard, and her wholesome and girlish inclination for him, 
suffered an early chill. For the poor child had ac- 
quired trench pets from the Cossacks, and had passed 
on a few to Estridge, with whom she had been con- 
stantly seated on the front seat. 

Being the frankest thing in Russia, she told him 
with tears in her blue eyes ; and they had a most horrid 
time of it before they came finally to a sanitary plant 
erected to attend to such matters. 

Episodes of that sort discourage sentiment; so does 
cold, hunger and discomfort incident on sardine-like 
promiscuousness. 

Nobody in the party desired to know more than they 
already knew concerning anybody else. In fact, there 
was little more to know, privacy being impossible. 
And the ever instinctive hostility of the two sexes, 
always and irrevocably latent, became vaguely appar- 
ent at moments. 

Common danger swept it away at times ; but reaction 
gradually revealed again what is bom under the 
human skin — the paradox called sex-antipathy. And 
19 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


yet the men in the party would not have hesitated to 
sacrifice their lives in defence of these women, nor 
would the women have faltered under the same test. 

Brisson was the philosophical stoic of the quartette. 
Estridge groused sometimes. Palla, when she thought 
l.erself unnoticed, camouflaged her face in her furs and 
cried now and then. And occasionally Ilse Westgard 
tried the patience of the others by her healthy capacity 
for unfeigned laughter — sometimes during danger- 
laden and inopportune moments, and once in the shock- 
ing imminence of death itself. 

As, for example, in a vile little village, full of vermin 
and typhus, some hunger-crazed peasants, armed with 
stolen rifles and ammunition, awoke them where they 
lay on the straw of a stable, cursed them for aristo- 
crats, and marched them outside to a convenient wall, 
at the foot or which sprawled half a dozen blood-soaked, 
bayoneted and bullet-riddled landlords and land owners 
of the district. 

And things had assumed a terribly serious aspect 
when, to their foolish consternation, the peasants dis- 
covered that their purloined cartridges did not fit their 
guns. 

Then, in the very teeth of death, Ilse threw back 
her blond head and laughed. And there was no mis- 
taking the genuineness of the girl’s laughter. 

Some of their would-be executioners laughed too ; — 
the hilarity spread. It was all over; they couldn’t 
shoot a girl who laughed that way. So somebody 
brought a samovar; tea was boiled; and they all went 
back to the bam and sat there drinking tea and swap- 
ping gossip and singing-until nearly morning. 

That was a sample of their narrow escapes. But 
Brisson’s only comment before he went to sleep was that 
20 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


Estridge would probably owe him a dollar within the 
next twenty-four hours. 

They had a hair-raising time in Helsingfors. On 
one occasion, German officers forced Palla’s door at 
night, and the girl became ill with fear while soldiers 
searched the room, ordering her out of bed and push- 
ing her into a corner while they ripped up carpets 
and tore the place to pieces in a swinishly ferocious 
search for “information.” 

But they did nothing worse to her, and, for some 
reason, left the hotel without disturbing Brisson, whose 
room adjoined and who sat on the edge of his bed with 
an automatic in each hand — a dangerous opportunist 
awaiting events and calmly determined to do some re- 
cruiting for hell if the huns harmed Palla. 

She never knew that. And the worst was over now, 
and the Scandinavian border not far away. And in 
twenty-four hours they were over — Brisson impatient 
to get his papers to Washington and planning to 
start for England on a wretched little packet-boat, in 
utter contempt of mines, U-boats, and the icy menace 
of the North Sea. 

As for the others, Estridge decided to cable and 
await orders in Copenhagen; Palla, to sail for home 
on the first available Danish steamer; Ilse, to go to 
Stockholm and eventually decide whether to volunteer 
once more as a soldier of the proletariat or to turn 
propagandist and carry the true gospel to America, 
where, she had heard, the ancient liberties of the great 
Democracy were becoming imperilled. 

The day before they parted company, these four 
people, so oddly thrown together out of the boiling 
cauldron of the Russian Terror, arranged to dine 
together for the last time. 

21 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


Theirs were the appetites of healthy wolves; theirs 
was the thirst of the marooned on waterless islands ; and 
theirs, too, was the feverish gaiety of those who had 
escaped great peril by land and sea; and who were 
still physically and morally demoralized by the glare 
and the roar of the hellish conflagration which was 
still burning up the world around them. 

So they met in a private dining room of the hotel 
for dinner on the eve of separation. 

Brisson and Estridge had resurrected from their 
luggage the remains of their evening attire; Ilse and 
Palla had shopped; and they now included in a limited 
wardrobe two simple dinner gowns, among more vital 
purchases. 

There were flowers on the table, no great variety of 
food but plenty of champagne to make up — a singular 
innovation in apology for short rations conceived by 
the hotel proprietor. 

There was a victrola in the corner, too, and this 
they kept going to stimulate their nerves, which 
already were sufficiently on edge without the added 
fillip of music and champagne. 

“As for me,” said Brisson, “I’m in sight of nervous 
dissolution already; — I’m going back to my wife and 
children, thank God — ” he smiled at Palla. “I’m grate- 
ful to the God you don’t believe in, dear little lady. 
And if He is willing, I’ll report for duty in two weeks.” 
He turned to Estridge: 

“What about you?” 

“I’ve cabled for orders but I have none yet. If 
they’re through with me I shall go back to New York 
and back to the medical school I came from. I hate 
the idea, too. Lord, how I detest it!” 

“Why?” asked Palla nervously. 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


“I’ve had too much excitement. You have too — 
and so have Ilse and Brisson. I’m not keen for the 
usual again. It bores me to contemplate it. The 
thought of Fifth Avenue — the very idea of going back 
to all that familiar routine, social and business, makes 
me positively ill. What a dull place this world will 
be when we’re all at peace again!” 

“We won*t be at peace for a long, long while,” said 
Use, smiling. She lifted a goblet in her big, beauti- 
fully shaped hand and drained it with the vigorous 
grace of a Viking’s daughter. 

“You think the war is going to last for years?” 
asked Estridge. 

“Oh, no ; not this war. But the other,” she explained 
cheerfully. 

“What other?” 

“Why, the greatest conflict in the world; the social 
war. It’s going to take many years and many battles. 
I shall enlist.” 

“Nonsense,” said Brisson, “you’re not a Red!” 

The girl laughed and showed her snowy teeth: “I’m 
one kind of Red — not the kind that sold Russia to the 
boche — but I’m very, very red.” 

“Everybody with a brain and a heart is more or 
less red in these days,” nodded Palla. “Everybody 
knows that the old order is ended — done for. Without 
liberty and equal opportunity civilisation is a farce. 
Everybody knows it except the stupid. And they’ll 
have to be instructed.” 

“Very well,” said Brisson briskly, “here’s to the uni- 
versal but bloodless revolution ! An acre for everybody 
and a mule to plough it! Back to the soil and to hell 
with the counting house!” 

They all laughed, but their brimming glasses went 

23 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


up; then Estridge rose to re-wind the victrola. Palla’s 
slim foot tapped the parquet in time with the American 
fox-trot ; she glanced across the table at Estridge, 
lifted her head interrogatively, then sprang up and 
slid into his arms, delighted. 

While they danced he said : “Better go light on that 
champagne, Miss Dumont.” 

“Don’t you think I can keep my head?” she demanded 
derisively. 

“Not if you keep up with Use. You’re not built 
that way.” 

“I wish I were. I wish I were nearly six feet tall 
and beautiful in every limb and feature as she is. What 
wonderful children she could have! What magnificent 
hair she must have had before she sheared it for the 
Woman’s Battalion! Now it’s all a dense, short mass 
of gold — she looks like a lovely boy who requires a 
barber.” 

“Your hair is not unbecoming, either,” he remarked, 
“ — short as it is, it’s a mop of curls and very fetching.” 

“Isn’t it funny?” she said. “I sheared mine for the 
sake of Mother Church ; Use cut off hers for the honour 
of the Army! Now we’re both out of a job — with 
only our cropped heads to show for the experience! — 
and no more army and* no more church — at least, 
as far as I am concerned!” 

And she threw back hers with its thick, glossy curls 
and laughed, looking up at him out of her virginal 
brown eyes of a child. 

“I’m sorry I cut my hair,” she added presently. “I 
look like a Bolshevik.” 

“It’s growing very fast,” he said encouragingly. 

“Oh, yes, it grows fast,” she nodded indifferently. 
“Shall we return to the table? I am rather thirsty.” 

24 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


Use and Brisson were engaged in an animated con- 
versation when they reseated themselves. The waiter 
arrived about that time with another course of poor 
food. 

Palla, disregarding Estridge’s advice, permitted the 
waiter to refill her glass. 

“I can’t eat that unappetising entree,” she insisted, 
“and champagne, they say, is nourishing and I’m still 
hungry.” 

“As you please,” said Brisson; “but you’ve had two 
glasses already.” 

“I don’t care,” she retorted childishly; “I mean to 
live to the utmost in future. For the first time in my 
silly existence I intend to be natural. I wonder what 
it feels like to become a little intoxicated?” 

“It feels rotten,” remarked Estridge. 

“Really? How rotten?” She laughed again, laid 
her hand on the goblet’s stem and glanced across at 
him defiantly, mischievously. However, she seemed 
to reconsider the matter, for she picked up a cigarette 
and lighted it at a candle. 

“Bah !” she exclaimed with a wry face. “It stings !” 

But she ventured another puff or two before placing 
it upon a saucer among its defunct fellows. 

“Ugh!” she complained again with a gay little shiver, 
and bit into a pear as though to wash out the con- 
tamination of unaccustomed nicotine. 

“Where are you going when we all say good-bye?” 
inquired Estridge. 

“I? Oh, I’m certainly going home on the first Dan- 
ish boat — home to Shadow Hill, where I told you I 
lived.” 

“And you have nobody but your aunt?” 

“Only that one old lady.” 

25 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


“You won’t remain long at Shadow Hill,” he pre- 
dicted. 

“It’s very pretty there. Why don’t you think I am 
likely to remain?” 

“You won’t remain,” he repeated. “You’ve slipped 
your cable. You’re hoisting sail. And it worries me 
a little.” 

The girl laughed. “It’s a pretty place, Shadow 
Hill, but it’s dull. Everybody in the town is dull, 
stupid, and perfectly satisfied: everybody owns at least 
that acre which Ilse demands; there’s no discontent at 
Shadow Hill, and no reason for it. I really couldn’t 
bear it,” she added gaily ; “I want to go where there’s 
healthy discontent, wholesome competition, natural as- 
piration — where things must be bettered, set right, 
helped. You understand? That is where I wish to be.” 

Brisson heard her. “Can’t you practise your loving 
but godless creed at Shadow Hill?” he inquired, amused. 
“Can’t you lavish love on the contented and well-to-do?” 

“Yes, Mr. Brisson,” she replied with sweet irony, 
“but where the poor and loveless fight an ever losing 
battle is still a better place for me to practise my 
godless creed and my Law of Love.” 

“Aha !” he retorted, “ — a brand new excuse for living 
in New York because all young girls love it!” 

“Indeed,” she said with some little heat, “I certainly 
do intend to live and not to stagnate! I intend to live 
as hard as I can — live and enjoy life with all my 
might ! Can one serve the world better than by loving 
it enough to live one’s own life through to the last 
happy rags? Can one give one’s fellow creatures a 
better example than to live every moment happily and 
proclaim the world good to live in, and mankind good 
to live with?” 


26 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


Use whispered, leaning near: “Don’t take any more 
champagne, Palla.” 

The girl frowned, then looked serious : “No, I won’t,” 
she said naively. “But it is wonderful how eloquent 
it makes one feel, isn’t it?” 

And to Estridge: “You know that this is quite 
the first wine I have ever tasted — except at Com- 
munion. I was brought up to think it meant destruc- 
tion. And afterward, wherever I travelled to study, 
the old prejudice continued to guide me. And after 
that, even when I began to think of taking the veil, I 
made abstinence one of my first preliminary vows. 
. . . And look what I’ve been doing to-night!” 

She held up her glass, tasted it, emptied it. 

“There,” she said, “I desired to shock you. I don’t 
really want any more. Shall we dance? Ilse! Why 
don’t you seize Mr. Brisson and make him two-step?” 

“Please seize me,” added Brisson gravely. 

Ilse rose, big, fresh, smilingly inviting; Brisson in- 
spected her seriously — he was only half as tall — then 
he politely encircled her waist and led her out. 

They danced as though they could not get enough 
of it — exhilaration due to reaction from the long strain 
during dangerous days. 

It was already morning, but they danced on. Palla’s 
delicate intoxication passed — returned — passed — 
hovered like a rosy light in her brain, but faded always 
as she danced. 

There were snapping-crackers and paper caps; and 
they put them on and pelted each other with the droop- 
ing table flowers. 

Then Estridge went to the piano and sang an 
ancient song, called “The Cork Leg” — not very well 
— but well intended and in a gay and inoffensive voice. 
27 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


But Ilse sang some wonderful songs which she had 
learned in the Battalion of Death. 

And that is what was being done when a waiter 
knocked and asked whether they might desire to order 
breakfast. 

That ended it. The hour of parting had arrived. 

No longer bored with one another, they shook hands 
cordially, regretfully. 

It was not a very long time, as time is computed, 
before these four met again. 


CHAPTER HI 


T HE dingy little Danish steamer Elsinore passed 
in at dawn, her camouflage obscured by sea- 
salt, her few passengers still prostrated from 
the long battering administered by the giant seas of the 
northern route. 

A lone Yankee soldier was aboard — an indignant 
lieutenant of infantry named Shotwell — sent home 
from a fighting regiment to instruct the ambitious 
rookie at Camp Upton. 

He had hailed his assignment with delight, thank- 
fully rid himself of his cooties, reported in Paris, re- 
ported in London; received orders to depart via Den- 
mark ; and, his mission there fulfilled, he had sailed on 
the Elsinore, already disenchanted with his job and 
longing to be back with his regiment. 

And now, surly from sea-sickness, worried by peace 
rumours,* but still believing that the war would last 
another year and hopeful of getting back before it 
ended, he emerged from his stuffy quarters aboard the 
Elsinore and gazed without enthusiasm at the mina- 
rets of Coney Island, now visible off the starboard 
bow. 

Near him, in pasty-faced and shaky groups, hud- 
dled his fellow passengers, whom he had not seen during 
the voyage except when lined up for life-drill. 

He had not wished to see them, either, nor, probably, 

29 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


had they desired to lavish social attentions on him or 
upon one another. 

These pallid, discouraged voyagers were few — not 
two dozen cabin passengers in all. 

Who they might be he had no curiosity to know; he 
had not exchanged ten words with any of them during 
the entire and nauseating voyage; he certainly did 
not intend to do so now. 

He favoured them with a savage glance and walked 
over to the port side — the Jersey side — where there 
seemed to be nobody except a tired Scandinavian 
sailor or two. 

In the grey of morning the Hook loomed up above 
the sea, gloomy as a thunder-head charged with light- 
ning. 

After a while the batteries along the Narrows slip- 
ped into view. Farther on, camouflaged ships rode 
sullenly at anchor, as though ashamed of their frivo- 
lous and undignified appearance. A battleship was 
just leaving the Lower Bay, smoke pouring from every 
funnel. Destroyers and chasers rushed by them, headed 
seaward. 

Then, high over the shore mists and dimly visible 
through rising vapours, came speeding a colossal 
phantom. 

Vague as a shark’s long shadow sheering translu- 
cent depths, the huge dirigible swept eastward and 
slid into the Long Island fog. 

And at that moment somebody walked plump into 
young Shotwell; and the soft, fragrant shock knocked 
the breath out of both. 

She recovered hers first: 

“I’m sorry!” she faltered. “It was stupid. I was 
SO 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


watching the balloon and not looking where I was 
going. I’m afraid I hurt you.” 

He recovered his breath, saluted ceremoniously, re- 
adjusted his overseas cap to the proper angle. 

Then he said, civilly enough: “It was my fault en- 
tirely. It was I who walked into you. I hope I didn’t 
hurt you.” 

They smiled, unembarrassed. 

“That was certainly a big dirigible,” he ventured. 

| “There are bigger Zeps, of course.” 

“Are there really?” 

“Oh, yes. But they’re not much good in war, I 
believe.” 

She turned her trim, small head and looked out 
across the bay; and Shotwell, who once had had a 
gaily receptive eye for pulchritude, thought her unus- 
ually pretty. 

Also, the steady keel of the Elsinore was making 
him feel more human now; and he ventured a further 
polite observation concerning the pleasures of home- 
coming after extended exile. 

She turned with a frank shake of her head : “It seems 
heartless to say so, but I’m rather sorry I’m back,” 
she said. 

He smiled: “I must admit,” he confessed, “that I 
feel the same way. Of course I want to see my people. 
But I’d give anything to be in France at this moment, 
and that’s the truth!” 

The girl nodded her comprehension : “It’s quite 
natural,” she remarked. “One does not wish to come 
home until this thing is settled.” 

“That’s it exactly. It’s like leaving an interesting 
play half finished. It’s worse — it’s like leaving an ab- 
31 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


sorbing drama in which you yourself are playing an 
exciting role.” 

She glanced at him — a quick glance of intelligent 
appraisal. 

“Yes, it must have seemed that way to you. But 
I’ve been merely one among a breathless audience. 

And yet I can’t bear to leave in the very middle — not 
knowing how it is to end. Besides,” she added care- 
lessly, “I have nobody to come back to except a rather 
remote relative, so my regrets are unmixed.” 

There ensued a silence. He was afraid she was 
about to go, but couldn’t seem to think of anything 
to say to detain her. 

For the girl was very attractive to a careless and 
amiably casual man of his sort — the sort who start 
their little journey through life with every intention 
of having the best kind of a time on the way. 

She was so distractingly pretty, so confidently negli- 
gent of convention — or perhaps disdainful of it — that 
he already was regretting that he had not met her at 
the beginning of the voyage instead of at the end. 

She had now begun to button up her ulster, as though 
preliminary to resuming her deck promenade. And he 
wanted to walk with her. But because she had chosen 
to be informal with him did not deceive him into think- 
ing that she was likely to tolerate further informality 
on his part. And yet he had a vague notion that her 
inclinations were friendly. 

“I’m sorry,” he said rather stupidly, “that I didn’t 
meet you in the beginning.” 

The slightest inclination of her head indicated that 
although possibly she might be sorry too, regrets were 
now useless. Then she turned up the collar of her 
32 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


ulster. The face it framed was disturbingly lovely. 
And he took a last chance. 

“And so,” he ventured politely, “you have really 
been on board the Elsinore all this time!” 

She turned her charming head toward him, considered 
him a moment ; then she smiled. 

“Yes,” she said; “I’ve been on board all the time. 
I didn’t crawl aboard in mid-ocean, you know.” 

The girl was frankly amused by the streak of boy- 
ishness in him — the perfectly transparent desire of 
this young man to detain her in conversation. And, 
still amused, she leaned back against the rail. If he 
wanted to talk to her she would let him — even help 
him. Why not? 

“Is that a wound chevron?” she inquired, looking 
at the sleeve of his tunic. 

“No,” he replied gratefully, “it’s a service stripe.” 

“And what does the little cord around your shoulder 
signify?” 

“That my regiment was cited.” 

“For bravery?” 

“Well — that was the idea, I believe.” 

“Then you’ve been in action.” 

“Yes.” 

“Over the top?” 

“Yes.” 

“How many times?” 

“Several. Recently it’s been more open work, you 
know.” 

“And you were not hit?” 

“No.” 

She regarded him smilingly: “You are like all soldiers 
who have faced death,” she said. “You are not com- 
municative.” 

33 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


At that he reddened. “Well, everybody else was 
facing it, too, you know. We all had the same ex- 
perience.” 

“Not all,” she said, watching him. “Some died.” 

“Oh, of course.” 

The girl’s face flushed and she nodded emphatically: 
“Of course ! And that is our Yankee secret ; — embodied 
in those two words — ‘of course.’ That is exactly why 
the boche runs away from our men. The boche doesn’t 
know why he runs, but it is because you all say, ‘of 
course! — of course we’re here to kill and get killed. 
What of it? It’s in the rules of the game, isn’t it? 
Very well; we’re playing the game!’ 

“But the rules of the hun game are different. Ac- 
cording to their rules, machine guns are not charged 
on. That is not according to plan. Oh, no ! But it is 
in your rules of the game. So after the boche has 
killed a number of you, and you say, ‘of course,’ and 
you keep coming on, it first bewilders the boche, then 
terrifies him. And the next time he sees you coming 
he takes to his heels.” 

Shotwell, amused, fascinated, and entirely surprised, 
began to laugh. 

“You seem to know the game pretty well yourself,” 
he said. “You are quite right. That is the idea.” 

“It’s a wonderful game,” she mused. “I can under- 
stand why you are not pleased at being ordered home.” 

“It’s rather rotten luck when the outfit had just been 
cited,” he explained. 

“Oh. I should think you would hate to come back !” 
exclaimed the girl, with frank sympathy. 

“Well, I was glad at first, but I’m sorry now. I’m 
missing a lot, you see.” 

“Why did they send you back?” 

34 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


“To instruct rookies 1” he said with a grimace. 
“Rather inglorious, isn’t it? But I’m hoping I’ll have 
time to weather this detail and get back again before 
we reach the Rhine.” 

“I want to get back again, too,” she reflected aloud, 
biting her lip and letting her dark eyes rest on the 
statue of Liberty, towering up ahead. 

“What was your branch?” he inquired. 

“Oh, I didn’t do anything,” she exclaimed, flushing. 
“I’ve been in Russia. And now I must find out at once 
what I can do to be sent to France.” 

“The war caught you over there, I suppose,” he 
hazarded. 

“Yes. . . . I’ve been there since I was twenty. 

I’m twenty-four. I had a year’s travel and study 
and then I became the American companion of the 
little Russian Grand Duchess Marie.” 

“They all were murdered, weren’t they?” he asked, 
much interested. 

“Yes. . . . I’m trying to forget ” 

“I beg your pardon ■” 

“It’s quite all right. I, myself, mentioned it first; 

but I can’t talk about it yet. It’s too personal ” 

She turned and looked at the monstrous city. 

After a silence: “It’s been a rotten voyage, hasn’t 
it?” he remarked. 

“Perfectly rotten. I was so ill I could scarcely keep 
my place during life-drill. ... I didn’t see you 
there,” she added with a faint smile, “but I’m sure 
you were aboard, even if you seem to doubt that I 
was.” 

And then, perhaps considering that she had been 
sufficiently amiable to him, she gave him his conge with 
a pleasant little nod. 


35 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


“Could I help you — do anything — ” he began. But 
she thanked him with friendly finality. 

They sauntered in opposite directions: and he did 
not see her again to speak to her. 

Later, jolting toward home in a taxi, it occurred 
to him that it might have been agreeable to see such 
an attractively informal girl again. Any man likes 
informality in women, except among the women of his 
own household, where he would promptly brand it as 
indiscretion. 

He thought of her for a while, recollecting details 
of the episode and realising that he didn’t even know 
her name. Which piqued him. 

“Serves me right,” he said aloud with a shrug of 
finality. “I had more enterprise once.” 

Then he looked out into the sunlit streets of Man- 
hattan, all brilliant with flags and posters and swarm- 
ing with prosperous looking people — his own people. 
But to his war-enlightened and disillusioned eyes his 
own people seemed almost like aliens ; he vaguely re- 
sented their too evident prosperity, their irresponsible 
immunity, their heedless preoccupation with the petty 
things of life. The acres of bright flags fluttering 
above them, the posters that made a gay back-ground 
for the scene, the sheltered, undisturbed routine of 
peace seemed to annoy him. 

An odd irritation invaded him ; he had a sudden im- 
pulse to stop his taxi and shout, “Fat-heads ! Get into 
the game! Don’t you know the world’s on fire? Don’t 
you know what a hun really is? You’d better look 
out and get busy!” 

Fifth Avenue irritated him — shops, hotels, clubs, 
motors, the well-dressed throngs began to exasperate 
him. 


36 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


On a side street he caught a glimpse of his own 
place of business; and it almost nauseated him to re- 
member old man Sharrow, and the walls hung with 
plans of streets and sewers and surveys and photo- 
graphs; and his own yellow oak desk 

“Good Lord!” he thought. “If the war ends, have 
I got to go back to that! ” 

The family were at breakfast when he walked in on 
them — only two — his father and mother. 

In his mother’s arms he suddenly felt very young 
and subdued, and very glad to be there. 

“Where the devil did you come from, Jim?” repeated 
his father, with twitching features and a grip on his 
son’s strong hand that he could not bring himself to 
loosen. 

Yes, it was pretty good to get home, after all — 
. . . And he might not have come back at all. He 

realised it, now, in his mother’s arms, feeling very 
humble and secure. 

His mother had realised it, too, in every waking hour 
since the day her only son had sailed at night — that 
had been the hardest! — at night — and at an unnamed 
hour of an unnamed day! — her only son — gone in the 
darkness 

On his way upstairs, he noticed a red service flag 
bearing a single star hanging in his mother’s window. 

He went into his own room, looked soberly around, 
sat down on the lounge, suddenly tired. 

He had three days’ leave before reporting for duty. 
It seemed a miserly allowance. Instinctively he glanced 
at his wrist-watch. An hour had fled already. 

“The dickens!” he muttered. But he still sat there. 
After a while he smiled to himself and rose leisurely to 
make his toilet. 


37 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


“Such an attractively informal girl,” he thought re- 
gretfully. 

“Fm sorry I didn’t learn her name. Why didn’t I?” 

Philosophy might have answered: “But to what pur- 
pose? No young man expects to pick up a girl of his 
own kind. And he has no business with other kinds.” 

But Shotwell was no philosopher. 

The “attractively informal girl,” on whom young 
Shotwell was condescending to bestow a passing regret 
while changing his linen, had, however, quite forgotten 
him by this time. There is more philosophy in women. 

Her train was now nearing Shadow Hill ; she already 
could see the village in its early winter nakedness — 
the stone bridge, the old-time houses of the well-to-do, 
Main Street full of automobiles and farmers’ wagons, 
a crowded trolley-car starting for Deepdale, the county 
seat. 

After four years the crudity of it all astonished her 
— the stark vulgarity of Main Street in the sunshine, 
every mean, flimsy architectural detail revealed — the 
dingy trolley poles, the telegraph poles loaded with 
unlovely wires and battered little electric light fixtures 
— the uncompromising, unrelieved ugliness of street 
and people, of shop and vehicle, of treeless sidewalks, 
brick pavement, car rails, hydrants, and rusty gaso- 
line pumps. 

Here was a people ignorant of civic pride, knowing 
no necessity for beauty, having no standards, no as- 
pirations, conscious of nothing but the grosser material 
needs. 

The hopelessness of this American town — and there 
were thousands like it — its architectural squalor, its 
animal unconsciousness, shocked her after four years 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


in lards where colour, symmetry and good taste are 
indigenous and beauty as necessary as bread. 

And the girl had been bom here, too ; had known no 
other home except when at boarding school or on shop- 
ping trips to New York. 

Painfully depressed, she descended at the station, 
where she climbed into one of the familiar omnibuses 
and gave her luggage check to the lively young driver. 

Several drummers also got in, and finally a farmer 
whom she recognised but who had evidently forgotten 
her. 

The driver, a talkative young man whom she re- 
membered as an obnoxious boy who delivered news- 
papers, came from the express office with her trunk, 
flung it on top of the bus, gossiped with several station 
idlers, then leisurely mounted his seat and gathered 
up the reins. 

Rattling along the main street she became aware of 
changes — a brand new yellow brick clothing store — 
a dreadful Quick Lunch — a moving picture theatre — 
other monstrosities. And she saw familiar faces on 
the street. 

The drummers got out with their sample cases at 
the Bolton House — Charles H. Bolton, proprietor. 
The farmer descended at the “Par Excellence Market,” 
where, as he informed the driver, he expected to dispose 
of a bull calf which he had finally decided “to veal.” 

“Which way, ma’am?” inquired the driver, looking 
in at her through the door and chewing gum very 
fast. 

“To Miss Dumont’s on Shadow Street.” 

“Oh ! . . . ” Then, suddenly he knew her. 

“Say, wasn’t you her niece?” he demanded. 

“I am Miss Dumont’s niece,” replied Palla, smiling. 

39 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


“Sure! I didn’t reckonise you. Used to leave the 
Star on your doorstep ! Been away, ain’t you? Home 
looks kinda good to you, even if it’s kind* lone- 
some — ” He checked himself as though recollecting 
something else. “Sure! You been over in Rooshia 
livin’ with the Queen! There was a piece in the Star 
about it. Gee!” he added affably. “That was pretty 
soft! Some life, I bet!” 

And he grinned a genial grin and climbed into his 
seat, chewing rapidly. 

“He means to be friendly,” thought the heart-sick 
girl, with a shudder. 

When Palla got out she spoke pleasantly to him as 
she paid him, and inquired about his father — a shift- 
less old gaffer who used, sometimes, to do garden work 
for her aunt. 

But the driver, obsessed by the fact that she had 
lived with the “Queen of Rooshia,” merely grinned and 
repeated, “Pretty soft,” and, shoulder^ig her trunk, 
walked to the front door, chewing furiously. 

Martha opened the door, stared through her spec- 
tacles. 

“Land o’ mercy !” she gasped. “It’s Palla !” Which, 
in Shadow Hill, is the manner and speech of the “hired 
girl,” whose “folks” are “neighbours” and not inferiors. 

“How do you do, Martha,” said the girl smilingly; 
and offered her gloved hand. 

“Well, I’m so’s to be ’round — ” She wheeled on the 
man with the trunk: “Here, you ! Don’t go-a-trackin’ 
mud all over my carpet like that! Wipe your feet 
like as if you was brought up respectful!” 

“Ain’t I wipin’ em?” retorted the driver, in an in- 
jured voice. “Now then, Marthy, where does this here 
trunk go to?” 


40 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


“Big room front — wait, young fellow; you just 
follow me and be careful don’t bang the banisters ” 

Half way up she called back over her shoulder: “Your 
room’s all ready, Palla — ” and suddenly remembered 
something else and stood aside on the landing until 
the young man with the trunk had passed her; then 
waited for him to return and get himself out of the 
house. Then, when he had gone out, banging the door, 
she came slowly back down the stairs and met Palla 
ascending. 

“Where is my aunt?” asked Palla. 

And, as Martha remained silent, gazing oddly down 
at her through her glasses: 

“My aunt isn’t ill, is she?” 

“No, she ain’t ill. H’ain’t you heard?” 

“Heard what?” 

“Didn’t you get my letter?” 

“Your letter? Why did you write? What is the 
matter? Where is my aunt?” asked the disturbed girl. 

“I wrote you last month.” 

“What did you write?” 

“You never got it?” 

“No, I didn’t! What has happened to my aunt?” 

“She had a stroke, Palla.” 

“What ! Is — is she dead !” 

“Six weeks ago come Sunday.” 

The girl’s knees weakened and she sat down suddenly 
on the stairs. 

“Dead? My Aunt Emeline?” 

“She had a stroke a year ago. It made her a little 
stiff in one leg. But she wouldn’t tell you — wouldn’t 
bother you. She was that proud of you living as you 
did with all those kings and queens. ‘No,’ sez she to me, 
‘no, Martha, I ain’t a-goin’ to worry Palla. She and 
41 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


the Queen have got their hands full, what with the 
wicked way those Rooshian people are behaving. No,* 
sez she, ‘I’ll git well by the time she comes home for 

a visit after the war ■’ ” 

Martha’s spectacles became dim. She seated herself 
on the stairs and wiped them on her apron. 

“It came in the night,” she said, peering blindly at 
Palla. ... “I wondered why she was late to break- 
fast. When I went up she was lying there with her 

eyes open — just as natural ” 

Palla’s head dropped and she covered her face with 
both hands. 


CHAPTER IV 


T HERE remained, now, nothing to keep Palla in 
Shadow Hill. 

She had never intended to stay there, any- 
way ; she had meant to go to France. 

But already there appeared to be no chance for that 
in the scheme of things. For the boche had begun to 
squeal for mercy; the frightened swine was squirting 
life-blood as he rushed headlong for the home sty 
across the Rhine; his death-stench sickened the world. 

Thicker, ranker, reeked the bloody abomination in 
the nostrils of civilisation, where Justice strode ahead 
through hell’s own devastation, kicking the boche to 
death, kicking him through Belgium, through France, 
out of Light back into Darkness, back, back to his 
stinking sty. 

The rushing sequence of events in Europe since Palla’s 
arrival in America bewildered the girl and held in abey- 
ance any plan she had hoped to make. 

The whole world waited, too, astounded, incredulous 
as yet of the cataclysmic debacle, slowly realising that 
the super-swine were but swine — maddened swine, devil 
driven. And that the Sea was very near. 

No romance ever written approached in wild extrava- 
gance the story of doom now unfolding in the daily 
papers. 

Palla read and strove to comprehend — read, laid 

43 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


aside her paper, and went about her own business, which 
alone seemed dully real. 

And these new personal responsibilities — now that her 
aunt was dead — must have postponed any hope of an 
immediate departure for France. 

Her inheritance under her aunt’s will, the legal de- 
tails, the inventory of scattered acreage and real estate, 
plans for their proper administration, consultations 
with an attorney, conferences with Mr. Pawling, presi- 
dent of the local bank — such things had occupied and 
involved her almost from the moment of her arrival 
home. 

At first the endless petty details exasperated her — 
a girl fresh from the tremendous tragedy of things 
where, one after another, empires were crashing amid 
the conflagration of a continent. And she could not 
now keep her mind on such wretched little personal 
matters while her heart battered passionately at her 
breast, sounding the exciting summons to active service. 

To concentrate her thoughts on mortgages and deeds 
when she was burning to be on her way to France — to 
confer power of attorney, audit bills for taxes, for 
up-keep of line fences, when she was mad to go to New 
York and find out how quickly she could be sent to 
France — such things seemed more than a girl could 
endure. 

In Shadow Hill there was scarcely anything to re- 
mind her that the fate of the world was being settled 
for all time. 

Only for red service flags here and there, here and 
there a burly figure in olive-drab swaggering along 
Main Street, nothing except war-bread, the shortage 
of coal and sugar, and outrageous prices reminded her 
that the terrific drama was still being played beyond 
44 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


the ocean to the diapason of an orchestra thundering 
from England to Asia and from Africa to the Arctic. 

But already the eternal signs were pointing to the 
end. She read the Republican in the morning, the Star 
at night. Gradually it became apparent to the girl 
that the great conflagration was slowly dying down 
beyond the seas ; that there was to be no chance of her 
returning; that there was to be no need of her services 
even if she were already equipped to render any, and 
now, certainly, no time for her to learn anything which 
might once have admitted her to comradeship in the 
gigantic conflict between man and Satan. She was too 
late. The world’s tragedy was almost over. 

With the signing of the armistice, all dreams of 
service ended definitely for her. 

False news of the suspension of hostilities should 
have, in a measure, prepared her. Yet, the ultimately 
truthful news that the war was over made her almost 
physically ill. For the girl’s ardent religious fervour 
had consumed her emotional energy during the incessant 
excitement of the past three years. But now, for this 
natural ardour, there was no further employment. 
There was no outlet for mind or heart so lately on fire 
with spiritual fervour. God was no more; her friend 
was dead. And now the war had ended. And nobody 
in the world had any need of her — any need of this 
woman who needed the world — and love — spiritual per- 
haps, perhaps profane. 

The false peace demonstration, which set the bells 
of Shadow Hill clanging in the wintry air and the mill 
whistles blowing from distant villages, left her tired, 
dazed, indifferent. The later celebration, based on 
official news, stirred her spiritually even less. And she 
felt ill. 


45 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


There was a noisy night celebration on Main Street, 
but she had no desire to see it. She remained indoors 
reading the Star in the sitting room with Max, the cat. 
She ate no dinner. She cried herself to sleep. 

However, now that the worst had come — as she 
naively informed the shocked Martha next morning — 
she began to feel relieved in a restless, feverish way. 

A healthful girl accumulates much bodily energy over 
night; Palla’s passionate little heart and her active 
mind completed a storage battery very quickly charged 
* — and very soon over-charged — and an outlet was im- 
perative. 

Always, so far in her brief career, she had had ade- 
quate outlets. As a child she found satisfaction in vio- 
lent exercises ; in flinging herself headlong into every 
outdoor game, every diversion among the urchins of 
her circle. As a school girl her school sports and her 
studies, and whatever social pleasures were offered, had 
left the safety valve open. 

Later, mistress of her mother’s modest fortune, and 
£rown to restless, intelligent womanhood, Palla had gone 
abroad with a married school-friend, Leila Vance. 
Under her auspices she had met nice people and had 
seen charming homes in England — Colonel Vance 
being somebody in the county and even somebody in 
London — a diffident, reticent, agriculturally inclined 
land owner and colonel of yeomanry. And long ago 
dead in Flanders. And his wife a nurse somewhere in 
France. 

But before the war a year’s travel and study had 
furnished the necessary outlet to Palla Dumont. And 
then — at a charity bazaar — a passionate friendship had 
flashed into sacred flame — a friendship born at sight 
between her and the little Grand Duchess Marie. 

46 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


War was beginning; Colonel Vance was dead; but 
imperial inquiry located Leila. And imperial inquiry 
was satisfied. And Palla became the American com- 
panion and friend of the youthful Grand Duchess Marie. 
For three years that blind devotion had been her out- 
let — that and their mutual inclination for a life to be 
dedicated to God. 

What was to be her outlet now? — now that the little 
Grand Duchess was dead — now that God, as she had 
conceived him, had ceased to exist for her — now that 
the war was ended, and nobody needed that warm young 
heart of hers — that ardent little heart so easily set 
throbbing with the passionate desire to give. 

The wintry sunlight flooded the familiar sitting room, 
setting potted geraniums ablaze, gilding the leather 
backs of old books, staining prisms on the crystal chan- 
delier with rainbow tints, and causing Max, the family 
cat, to blink until the vertical pupils of his amber eyes 
seemed to disappear entirely. 

There was some snow outside — not very much — a 
wild bird or two among the naked apple trees; green 
edges, still, where snowy lawn and flower border met. 

And there was colour in the leafless shrubbery, too — 
wine-red stems of dogwood, ash-blue berry-canes, and 
the tangled green and gold of willows. And over all a 
pale cobalt sky, and a snow-covered hill, where, in the 
woods, crows sat cawing on the taller trees, and a slow 
goshawk sailed. 

A rich land, this, even under ice and snow — a rich, 
rolling land hinting of fat furrows and heavy grain; 
and of spicy, old-time gardens where the evenings were 
heavy with the scent of phlox and lilies. 

Palla, her hands behind her back, seeming very child- 
ish and slim in her black gown, stood searching absently 

. 47 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


among the books for something to distract her — some- 
thing in harmony with the restless glow of hidden fires 
hot in her restless heart. 

But war is too completely the great destroyer, killing 
even the serener pleasures of the mind, corrupting nor- 
mal appetite, dulling all interest except in what pertains 
to war. 

War is the great vandal, too, obliterating even that 
interest in the classic past which is born of respect 
for tradition. War slays all yesterdays, so that human 
interest lives only in the fierce and present moment, or 
blazes anew at thought of what may be to-morrow. 

Only the chronicles of the burning hour can hold 
human attention where war is. For last week is already 
a decade ago ; and last year a dead century ; but to-day 
is vital and to-morrow is immortal. 

It was so with Palla. Her listless eyes swept the 
ranks of handsome, old-time books — old favourites 
bound in gold and leather, masters of English prose and 
poetry gathered and garnered by her grand-parents 
when books were rare in Shadow Hill. 

Not even the modem masters appealed to her- — 
masters of fiction acclaimed but yesterday ; virile 
thinkers in philosophy, in science; enfranchised poets 
who had stridden out upon Olympus only yesterday 
to defy the old god’s lightning with unshackled stro- 
phes — and sometimes unbuttoned themes. 

But it was with Palla as with others ; she drifted 
back to the morning paper, wherein lay the interest 
of the hour. And nothing else interested her or the 
world. 

Martha announced lunch. Max accompanied her 
on her retreat to the kitchen. Palla loitered, not 
48 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


hungry, nervous and unquiet under the increasing 
need of occupation for that hot heart of hers. 

After a while she went out to the dining room, ate 
enough, endured Martha to the verge, and retreated 
to await the evening paper. 

Her attorney, Mr. Tiddley, came at three. They 
discussed quit-claims, mortgages, deeds, surveys, and 
reported encroachments incident to the decay of ancient 
landmarks. And the conversation maddened her. 

At four she put on a smart mourning hat and her 
black furs, and walked down to see the bank president, 
Mr. Pawling. The subject of their conversation was 
investments ; and it bored her. At five she returned 
to the house to receive a certain Mr. Skidder — known 
in her childhood as Blinky Skidder, in frank recogni- 
tion of an ocular peculiarity — a dingy but jaunty 
young man with a sheep’s nose, a shrewd upper lip, 
and snapping red-brown eyes, who came breezily in 
and said: “Hello, Palla! How’s the girl?” And took 
off his faded mackinaw uninvited. 

Mr. Skidder’s business had once been the exploita- 
tion of farmers and acreage; his specialty the persua- 
sion of Slovak emigrants into the acquisition of doubt- 
ful land. But since the war, emigrants were few; 
and, as honest men must live, Mr. Skidder had branched 
out into improved real estate and city lots. But the 
pickings, even here, were scanty, and loans hard to 
obtain. 

“I’ve changed my mind,” said Palla. “I’m not 
going to sell this house, Blinky.” 

“Well, for heaven’s sake — ain’t you going to New 
York?” he insisted, taken aback. 

“Yes, I am. But I’ve decided to keep my house.” 

“That,” said Mr. Skidder, snapping his eyes, “is 

49 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


silly sentiment, not business. But please yourself, 
Palla. I ain’t saying a word. I ain’t trying to tell 
you I can get a lot more for you than your house 
is worth — what with values falling and houses empty 
and the mills letting men go because there ain’t going 
to be any more war orders ! — but please yourself, Palla. 
I ain’t saying a word to urge you.” 

“ You’ve said several,” she remarked, smilingly. 
“But I think I’ll keep the house for the present, and 
I’m sorry that I wasted your time.” 

“Please yourself, Palla,” he repeated. “I guess 
you can afford to from all I hear. I guess you can 
do as you’ve a mind to, now. ... So you’re 
fixing to locate in New York, eh?” 

“I think so.” 

“Live in a flat?” 

“I don’t know.” 

“What are you going to do in New York?” he 
asked curiously. 

“I’m sure I don’t know. There’ll be plenty to do, 
I suppose.” 

“You bet,” he said, blinking rapidly, “there’s 
always something doing in that little old town.” He 
slapped his knee: “Palla,” he said, “I’m thinking of 
going into the movie business.” 

“Really?” 

“Yes, I’m considering it. Slovaks and bum farms 
are played out. There’s no money in Shadow Hill — 
or if there is, it’s locked up — or the income tax has 
paralysed it. No, I’m through. There’s nothing 
doing in land; no commissions. And I’m considering 
a quick getaway.” 

“Where do you expect to go?” 

50 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


“Say, Palla, when you kiss your old home good-bye, 
there’s only one place to go. Get me?” 

“New York?” she inquired, amused. 

“That’s me! There’s a guy down there I used to 
correspond with — a feller named Puma — Angelo Puma 
— not a regular wop, as you might say, but there’s 
some wop in him, judging by his map — or Mex — or 
kike, maybe — or something. Anyway, he’s in the mov- 
ing picture business — The Ultra-Pillum Company. I 
guess there’s a mint o’ money in fillums.” 

She nodded, a trifle bored. 

“I got a chance to go in with Angelo Puma,” he 
said, snapping his eyes. 

“Really?” 

“You know, Palla, I’ve made a little money, too, 
since you been over there living with the Queen of 
Russia.” 

“I’m very glad, Blinky.” 

“Oh, it ain’t much. And,” he added shrewdly, “it 
ain’t so paltry, neither. Thank the Lord, I made 
hay while the Slovaks lasted. . . . So,” he 
added, getting up from his chair, “maybe I’ll see you 
down there in New York, some day ” 

He hesitated, his blinking eyes redly intent on her 
as she rose to her slim height. 

“Say, Palla.” 

She looked at him inquiringly. 

“Ever thought of the movies?” 

“As an investment?” 

“Well — that, too. There’s big money in it. But 
I meant — I mean — it strikes me you’d make a bird of 
a movie queen.” 

The suggestion mildly amused her. 

“I mean it,” he insisted. “Grab it from me, Palla, 

51 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


you’ve got the shape, and you got the looks and you 
got the walk and the ways and the education. You 
got something peculiar — like you had been born a 
rich swell — I mean you kinda naturally act that way 
— kinda cocksure of yourself. Maybe you got it living 
with that Queen ” 

Palla laughed outright. 

“So you think because I’ve seen a queen I ought 
to know how to act like a movie queen?” 

“Well,” he said, picking up his hat, “maybe if I 
go in with Angelo Puma some day I’ll see you again 
and we’ll talk it over.” 

She shook hands with him. 

“Be good,” he called back as she closed the front 
door behind him. 

The early winter night had fallen over Shadow 
Hill. Palla turned on the electric light, stood for 
a while looking sombrely at the framed photographs 
of her father and mother, then, feeling lonely, went 
into the kitchen where Martha was busy with prepa- 
rations for dinner. 

“Martha,” she said, “I’m going to New York.” 

“Well, for the land’s sake ” 

“Yes, and I’m going day after to-morrow.” 

“What on earth makes you act like a gypsy, Palla?” 
she demanded querulously, seasoning the soup and 
tasting it. “Your pa and ma wasn’t like that. They 
was satisfied to set and rest a mite after being away. 
But you’ve been gone four years ’n more, and now 
you’re up and off again, hippity-skip ! clippity-clip ! 

99 

“I’m just going to run down to New York and look 
about. I want to look around and see what ” 

“That’s you , Palla! That’s what you alius was 
52 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


doing as a child — alius looking about you with your 
wide brown eyes, to see what you could see in the 
world! . . • You know what curiosity did to the 

cat?” 

“What?” 

“Pinched her paw in the mouse-trap.” 

“I’ll be careful,” said the girl, laughing. 


CHAPTER V 


I N touch with his unexciting business again, after 
many months of glorious absence, and seated once 
more at his abhorred yellow-oak desk, young Shot- 
well discovered it was anything except agreeable for 
him to gather up the ravelled thrums of civilian life 
after the thrilling taste of service over seas. 

For him, so long accustomed to excitement, the zest 
of living seemed to die with the signing of the armis- 
tice. 

In fact, since the Argonne drive, all luck seemed 
to have deserted him; for in the very middle of oper- 
ations he had been sent back to the United States as 
instructor; and there the armistice had now caught 
him. Furthermore, then, before he realised what 
dreadful thing was happening to him, he had been 
politely assigned to that vague limbo supposedly in- 
habited by a mythical organisation known as The Offi- 
cers’ Reserve Corps, and had been given indefinite leave 
of absence preliminary to being mustered out of the 
service of the United States. 

To part from his uniform was agonising, and he 
berated the fate that pried him loose from tunic and 
puttees. So disgusted was he that, although the Gov- 
ernment allowed three months longer .before discarding 
uniforms, he shed his in disgust for “cits”. 

But James Shotwell, Jr., was not the only man be- 

54 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


wildered and annoyed by the rapidity of events which 
followed the first days of demobilisation. Half a 
dozen other young fellows in the big real estate offices 
of Clarence Sharrow & Co. found themselves yanked 
out of uniform and seated once more at their familiar, 
uninviting desks of yellow oak — very young men, 
mostly, assigned to various camps of special three- 
month instruction; and now cruelly interrupted while 
scrambling frantically after commissions in machine- 
gun companies, field artillery, flying units, and tank 
corps. 

And there they were, back again at the old grind 
before they could realise their horrid predicament — 
the majority already glum and restless under the 
reaction, and hating Shotwell, who, among them all, 
had been the only man to cross the sea. 

This war-worn and envied veteran of a few months, 
perfectly aware that his military career had ended, 
was now trying to accept the situation and habituate 
himself to the loathly technique of commerce. 

Out of uniform, out of humour, out of touch with 
the arts of peace; still, at times, all a-quiver with 
the nervous shock of his experience, it was very hard 
for him to speak respectfully to Mr. Sharrow. 

As instructor to rookie aspirants he would have been 
somebody ! he had already been somebody as a lieu- 
tenant of infantry in the thunderous scheme of things 
in the Argonne. 

But in the offices of Clarence Sharrow & Co. he 
was merely a rather nice-looking civilian subordinate, 
whose duties were to aid clients in the selection and 
purchase of residences, advise them, consult with them, 
make appointments to show them dwelling houses, 
55 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


vacant or still tenanted, and in every stage of repair 
or decrepitude. 

On the wall beside his desk hung a tinted map of 
the metropolis. Upon a table at his elbow were piled 
ponderous tomes depicting the Bronx in all its beauty, 
and giving details of suburban sewers. Other volumes 
contained maps of the fashionable residential district, 
showing every consecrated block and the exact location 
as well as the linear dimensions of every awesome 
residence and back yard from Washington Square to 
Yorkville. 

By referring to a note-book which he carried in his 
breast pocket, young Shotwell could inform any grand 
lady or any pompous or fussy gentleman what was 
the “asking price” of any particular residence marked 
for sale upon the diagrams of the ponderous tomes. 

Also — which is why Sharrow selected him for that 
particular job — clients liked his good manners and 
his engaging ways. 

The average client buys a freshly painted house in 
preference to a well-built one, but otherwise clamours 
always for a bargain. The richer the client the louder 
the clamour. And to such demands Shotwell was always 
sympathetic — always willing to inquire whether or not 
the outrageous price asked for a dwelling might possi- 
bly be “shaded” a little. 

It always could be shaded; but few clients knew 
that; and the majority, much flattered at their own 
business acumen, entertained kind feelings toward 
Sharrow & Co. and sentiments almost cordial toward 
young Shotwell when the “shading” process had 
proved to be successful. 

But the black-eye dealt the residential district long 
ago had not yet cleared up. Real property of that 
56 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


sort was still dull and inactive except for a flare-up 
now and then along Park Avenue and Fifth. 

War, naturally, had not improved matters; and, as 
far as the residential part of their business was con- 
cerned, Sharrow & Co. transacted the bulk of it in 
leasing apartments and, now and then, a private house, 
usually on the West Side. 

That morning, in the offices of Sharrow & Co., a 
few clients sat beside the desks of the various men 
who specialised in the particular brand of real estate 
desired: several neat young girls performed diligently 
upon typewriters; old man Sharrow stood at the door 
of his private office twirling his eye-glasses by the gold 
chain and urbanely getting rid of an undesirable visi- 
tor — one Angelo Puma, who wanted some land for a 
moving picture studio, but was persuasively unwilling 
to pay for it. 

He was a big man, too heavy, youngish, with plump 
olive skin, black hair, lips too full and too red under 
a silky moustache, and eyes that would have been mag- 
nificent in a woman — a Spanish dancer, for example — 
rich, dark eyes, softly brilliant under curling lashes. 

He seemed to covet the land and the ramshackle 
stables on it, but he wanted somebody to take back 
a staggering mortgage on the property. And Mr. 
Sharrow shook his head gently, and twirled his eye- 
glasses. 

“For me,” insisted Puma, “I do not care. It is 
good property. I would pay cash if I had it. But I 
have not. No. My capital at the moment is tied 
up in production; my daily expenses, at present, re- 
quire what cash I have. If your client is at all reason- 
able ” 




57 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


“He isn’t,” said Sharrow. “He’s a Connecticut 
Yankee.” 

For a moment Angelo Puma seemed crestfallen, then 
his brilliant smile flashed from every perfect tooth: 

“That is very bad for me,” he said, buttoning his 
showy overcoat. “Pardon me; I waste your time — ” 
pulling on his gloves. “However, if your client should 
ever care to change his mind ” 

“One moment,” said Sharrow, whose time Mr. Puma 
had indeed wasted at intervals during the past year, 
and who heartily desired to be rid of property and 
client: “Suppose you deal directly with the owner. 
We are not particularly anxious to carry the prop- 
erty; it’s a little out of our sphere. Suppose I put 
you in direct communication with the owner.” 

“Delighted,” said Puma, flashing his smile and bow- 
ing from the waist ; and perfectly aware that his 
badgering had bored this gentleman to the limit. 

“I’ll write out his address for you,” said Sharrow, 
“ — one moment, please ” 

Angelo Puma waited, his glossy hat in one hand, 
his silver-headed stick and folded suede gloves in the 
other. 

Like darkly brilliant searchlights his magnificent 
eyes swept the offices of Sharrow & Co. ; at a glance 
he appraised the self-conscious typists, surmised possi- 
bilities in a blond one; then, as a woman entered from 
the street, he rested his gaze upon her. And he kept it 
there. 

Even when Sharrow came out of his private office 
with the slip of paper, Angelo Puma’s eyes still re- 
mained fastened upon the young girl who had spoken 
to a clerk and then seated herself in a chair beside the 
desk of James Shotwell, Jr. 

58 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


“The man’s name,” repeated Sharrow patiently, “is 
Elmer Skidder. His address is Shadow Hill, Connec- 
ticut.” 

Puma turned to him as though confused, thanked 
him effusively, took the slip of paper, pulled on his 
gloves in a preoccupied way, and very slowly walked 
toward the street door, his eyes fixed on the girl who 
was now in animated conversation with young Shot- 
well. 

As he passed her she was laughing at something 
the young man had just said, and Puma deliberately 
turned and looked at her again — looked her full in 
the face. 

She was aware of him and of his bold scrutiny, of 
course — noticed his brilliant eyes, no doubt — but paid 
no heed to him — was otherwise preoccupied with this 
young man beside her, whom she had neither seen nor 
thought about since the day she had landed in New 
York from the rusty little Danish steamer Elsinore . 

And now, although he had meant nothing at all to 
her except an episode already forgotten, to meet him 
again had instantly meant something to her. 

For this man now represented to her a link with the 
exciting past — this young soldier who had been fresh 
from the furnace when she had met him on deck as 
the Elsinore passed in between the forts in the grey 
of early morning. 

The encounter was exciting her a little, too, over- 
emphasising its importance. 

“Fancy!” she repeated, “my encountering you here 
and in civilian dress! Were you dreadfully disap- 
pointed by the armistice?” 

“Pm ashamed to say I took it hard,” he admitted. 

“So did I. I had hoped so to go to France. And 

59 




THE CRIMSON TIDE 


you — oh, I am sorry for you. You were so disgusted 
at being detailed from the fighting line to Camp 
Upton! And now the war is over. What a void!” 

“You’re very frank,” he said. “We’re supposed to 
rejoice, you know.” 

“Oh, of course. I really do rejoice ” 

They both laughed. 

“I mean it,” she insisted. “In my sober senses 1 
am glad the war is over. I’d be a monster if I were 
not glad. But — what is going to take its place? 
Because we must have something, you know. One 
can’t endure a perfect void, can one?” 

Again they laughed. 

“It was such a tremendous thing,” she explaimed. 
“I did want to be part of it before it ended. But of 
course peace is a tremendous thing, too ” 

And they both laughed once more. 

“Anybody overhearing us,” she confided to him, 
“would think us mere beasts. Of course you are glad 
the war is ended: that’s why you fought. And I’m 
glad, too. And I’m going to rent a house in New 
York and find something to occupy this void I speak 
of. But isn’t it nice that I should come to you about 
it?” 

“Jolly,” he said. “And now at last I’m going to 
learn your name.” 

“Oh. Don’t you know it?” 

“I wanted to ask you, but there seemed to be no 
proper opportunity ” 

“Of course. I remember. There seemed to be no 
reason.” 

“I was sorry afterward,” he ventured. 

That amused her. “You weren’t really sorry, were 
you?” 


60 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


“I really was. I thought of you ” 

“Do you mean to say you remembered me after the 
ship docked?” 

“Yes. But I’m very sure you instantly forgot me.” 

“I certainly did!” she admitted, still much amused 
at the idea. “One doesn’t remember everybody one 
sees, you know,” she went on frankly, “ — particularly 
after a horrid voyage and when one’s head is full of 
exciting plans. Alas! those wonderful plans of mine! 
* — the stuff that dreams are made of. And here I 
am asking you kindly to find me a modest house with 
a modest rental. . . . And by the way,” she 

added demurely, “my name is Palla Dumont.” 

“Thank you,” he said smilingly. “Do you care to 
know mine?” 

“I know it. When I came in and told the clerk 
what I wanted, he said I should see Mr. Shotwell.” 

“James Shotwell, Jr.,” he said gravely. 

“That is amiable. You don’t treasure malice, do 
you? I might merely have known you as Mr. Shotwell. 
And you generously reveal all from James to Junior.” 

They were laughing again. Mr. Sharrow noticed 
them from his private office and congratulated himself 
on having Shotwell in his employment. 

“When may I see a house?” inquired Palla, settling 
her black-gloved hands in her black fox muff. 

“Immediately, if you like.” 

“How wonderful!” 

He took out his note-book, glanced through several 
pages, asked her carelessly what rent she cared to pay, 
made a note of it, and resumed his study of the note- 
book. 

“The East Side?” he inquired, glancing at her with 
curiosity not entirely professional. 

61 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


“I prefer it.” 

From his note-book he read to her the descriptions 
and situations of several twenty-foot houses in the 
zone between Fifth and Third Avenues. 

“Shall we go to see some of them, Mr. Shotwell? 
Have you, perhaps, time this morning?” 

“I’m delighted,” he said. Which, far from strain- 
ing truth, perhaps restrained it. 

So he got his hat and overcoat, and they went out 
together into the winter sunshine. 

Angelo Puma, seated in a taxi across the street, 
observed them. He wore a gardenia in his lapel. He 
might have followed Palla had she emerged alone from 
the offices of Sharrow & Co. 

Shotwell Junior had a jolly morning of it. And, 
if the routine proved a trifle monotonous, Palla, too, 
appeared to amuse herself. 

She inspected various types of houses, expensive 
and inexpensive, modern and out of date, well built 
and well kept and u jerry-built” and dirty. 

Prices and rents painfully surprised her, and she 
gave up any idea of renting a furnished house, and 
so informed Shotwell. 

So they restricted their inspection to three-story 
unfurnished and untenanted houses, where the neigh- 
bourhood was less pretentious and there was a better 
light in the rear. 

But they all were dirty, neglected, out of repair, 
destitute pf decent plumbing and electricity. 

On the second floor of one of these Palla stood, 
discouraged, perplexed, gazing absently out, across a 
filthy back yard full of seedling ailanthus trees and 
rubbish, at the rear fire escapes on the tenements 
beyond. 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


Shotwell, exploring the closely written pages of his 
note-book, could discover nothing desirable within the 
terms she was willing to make. 

“There’s one house on our books,’* he said at last, 
“which came in only yesterday. I haven’t had time to 
look at it. I don’t even know where the keys are. 
But if you’re not too tired ” 

Palla gave him one of her characteristic direct looks : 

“I’m not too tired, but I’m starved. I could go 
after lunch.” 

“Fine!” he said. “I’m hungry, tool Shall we go 
to Delmonico’s?” 

The girl seemed a trifle nonplussed. She had not 
supposed that luncheon with clients was included in 
a real estate transaction. 

She was not embarrassed, nor did the suggestion 
seem impertinent. But she said: 

“I had expected to lunch at the hotel*** 

He reddened a little. Guilt shows its colors. 

“Had you rather?” he asked. 

“Why, no. I’d rather lunch with you at Delmonico’s 
and talk houses.” And, a little amused at this young 
man’s transparent guile, she added: “I think it would 
be very agreeable for us to lunch together.” 

She came from the dressing-room fresh and flushed 
as a slightly chilled rose, rejoining him fn the lobby, 
and presently they were seated in the palm room with 
a discreet and hidden orchestra playing, “Oh! How I 
Hate To Get Up in the Morning,’ 1 and rather busy 
with a golden Casaba melon between them. 

“Isn’t this jolly!” he said, expanding easily, as do 
all young men in the warmth of the informal. 

63 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


“Very. What an agreeable business yours seems 
to be, Mr. Shotwell.” 

“In what way?” he asked innocently. 

“Why, part of it is lunching with feminine clients, 
isn’t it?” 

His close-set ears burned. She glanced up with 
mischief brilliant in her brown eyes. But he was busy 
with his melon. And, not looking at her : 

“Don’t you want to know me?” he asked so clumsily 
that she hesitated to snub so defenceless a male. 

“I don’t know whether I wish to,” she replied, smiling 
slightly. “I hadn’t aspired to it; I hadn’t really con- 
sidered it. I was thinking about renting a house.” 

He said nothing, but, as the painful colour remained 
in his face, the girl decided to be a little kinder. 

“Anyway,” she said, “I’m enjoying myself. And I 
hope you are.” 

He said he was. But his voice and manner were so 
subdued that she laughed. 

“Fancy asking a girl such a question,” she said. 
“You shouldn’t ask a woman whether she doesn’t want 
to know you. It would be irregular enough, under 
the circumstances, to say that you wanted to know 
her.” 

“That’s what I meant,” he replied, wincing. “Would 
you consider it?” 

She could not disguise her amusement. 

“Yes ; I’ll consider it, Mr. Shotwell. I’ll give it my 
careful attention. I owe you something, anyway.” 

“What?” he asked uncertainly, prepared for further 
squelching. 

“I don’t know exactly what. But when a man re- 
members a woman, and the woman forgets the man, 
isn’t something due him?” 

64 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


“I think there is,” he said so naively that Palla was 
unable to restrain her gaiety. 

“This is a silly conversation,” she said, “ — as silly 
as though I had accepted the cocktail you so thought- 
fully suggested. We’re both enjoying each other and 
we know it.” 

“Really!” he exclaimed, brightening. 

His boyish relief — everything that this young man 
said to her — seemed to excite the girl to mirth. Per- 
haps she had been starved for laughter longer than 
is good for anybody. Besides, her heart was natu- 
rally responsive — opened easily — was easily engaged. 

“Of course I’m inclined to like you,” she said, “or 
I wouldn’t be here lunching with you and talking non- 
sense instead of houses ” 

“We’ll talk houses!” 

“No; we’ll looJc at them — later. . . . Do you 

know it’s a long, long time since I have laughed with 
a really untroubled heart?” 

“I’m sorry.” 

“Yes, it isn’t good for a girl. Sadness is a sick- 
ness — a physical disorganisation that infects the mind. 
It makes a strange emotion of love, too, perverting 
it to that mysticism we call religion — and wasting it 
. . . I suppose you’re rather shocked,” she said 

smilingly. 

“No. . . . But have you no religion?” 

“Have you?” 

“Well— yes.” 

“Which?” 

“Protestant. . . . Are you Catholic?” 

The girl rested her cheek on her hand and dabbed 
absently at her orange ice. 

“I was once,” she said. “I was very religious — in 

65 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


the accepted sense of the term. ... It came rather 
suddenly; — it seemed to be bom as part of a sudden 
and close friendship with a girl — began with that friend- 
ship, I think . . . And died with it.” 

She sat quite silent for a while, then a tremulous 
smile edged her lips : 

“I had meant to take the veil,” she said. “I did 
begin my novitiate.” 

“Here?” 

“No, in Russia. There are a few foreign cloistered 
orders there. . . . But I had a tragic awakening. . . .” 
She bent her head and quoted softly, “ ‘For the former 
things have passed away.’ ” 

The orange ice was melting; she stirred it idly, 
watching it dissolve. 

“No,” she said, “I had utterly misunderstood the 
scheme of things. Divinity is not a sad, a solemn, 
a solitary autocrat demanding selfish tribute, blind 
allegiance, inexorable self-abasement. It is not an in- 
secure tyrant offering bribery for the cringing, fright- 
ened servitude demanded.” 

She looked up smilingly at the man : “Nor, within us, 
is there any soul in the accepted meaning, — no satel- 
lite released at death to revolve around or merge into 
some super-divinity. No ! 

“For I believe, — I know — that the body — every one’s 
body — is inhabited by a complete god, immortal, re- 
taining its divine entity, beholden to no other deity save 
only itself, and destined to encounter in a divine democ- 
racy and through endless futures, unnumbered brother 
gods — the countless divinities which have possessed and 
shall possess those tenements of mankind which we call 
our bodies. . . . You do not, of course, subscribe to 
such a faith,” she added, meeting his gaze. 

66 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


“Well ” He hesitated. She said: 

“Autocracy in heaven is as unthinkable, as unbeliev- 
able, and as obnoxious to me as is autocracy on earth. 
There is no such thing 1 as divine right, here or else- 
where, — no divine prerogatives for tyranny, for punish- 
ment, for cruelty.” 

“How did you happen to embrace such a faith?” he 
asked, bewildered. 

“I was sick of the scheme of things. Suffering, 
cruelty, death outraged my common sense. It is not in 
me to say, ‘Thy will be done, 5 to any autocrat, heavenly 
or earthly. It is not in me to fawn on the hand that 
strikes me — or that strikes any helpless thing! No! 
And the scheme of things sickened me, and I nearly 
died of it ” 

She clenched her hand where it rested oil the table, 
and he saw her face flushed and altered by the fire 
within. Then she smiled and leaned back in her chair. 

“In you,” she said gaily, “dwells a god. In me a 
goddess, — a joyous one, — a divine thing that laughs, 
— a complete and free divinity that is gay and tender, 
that is incapable of tyranny, that loves all things both 
great and small, that exists to serve — freely, not for re- 
ward — that owes allegiance and obedience only to the 
divine and eternal law within its own godhead. And 
that law is the law of love. . . . And that is my 
substitute for the scheme of things. Could you sub- 
scribe?” 

After a silence he quoted: “ Could you, asrid I with 
Him conspire ” 

She nodded : “ ‘To grasp this sorry scheme of thmgs 

entire ’ But there is no ‘Him.* It’s you and I. 

. . . Both divine. . . . Suppose we grasp it 

and ‘shatter it to bits . 9 Shall we?” 

67 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


“ * And then remould it nearer to the heart 9 s desire ? 9 99 

“Remould it nearer to the logic of common sense.” 

Neither spoke for a few moments. Then she drew 
a swift, smiling breath. 

“We’re getting on rather rapidly, aren’t we?” she 
said. “Did you expect to lunch with such a friendly, 
human girl? And will you now take her to inspect this 
modest house which you hope may suit her, and which 
she most devoutly hopes may suit her, too?” 

“This has been a perfectly delightful day,” he said 
as they rose. 

“Do you want me to corroborate you?” 

“Could you?” 

“I’ve had a wonderful time,” she said lightly. 


CHAPTER VI 


J OHN ESTRIDGE, out of a job — as were a million 
odd others now arriving from France by every 
transport — met James Shotwell, Junior, one win- 
try day as the latter was leaving the real estate offices 
of Sharrow & Co. 

“The devil,” exclaimed Estridge ; “I supposed you, at 
least, were safe in the service, Jim! Isn’t your regi- 
ment in Germany?” 

“It is,” replied Shotwell wrathfully, shaking hands. 
“Where do you come from, Jack?” 

“From hell — via Copenhagen. In milder but mis- 
leading metaphor, I come from Holy Russia.” 

“Did the Red Cross fire you?” 

“No, but they told me to run along home like a 
good boy and get my degree. I’m not an M.D., you 
know. And there’s a shortage. So I had to come.” 

“Same here; I had to come.” And Shotwell, for 
Estridge’s enlightenment, held a post-mortem over the 
premature decease of his promising military career. 

“Too bad,” commented the latter. “It sure was ex- 
citing while it lasted — our mixing it in the great game. 
There’s pandemonium to pay in Russia, now ; — I rather 
hated to leave. . . . But it was either leave or be 

shot up. The Bolsheviki are impossible. . . . Are 

you walking up town?” 

They fell into step together. 

69 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


“You’ll go back to the P. & S., I suppose,” ventured 
Shotwell. 

“Yes. And you?” 

“Oh, I’m already nailed down to the old oaken desk. 
Sharrow’s my boss, if you remember?” 

“It must seem dull,” said Estridge sympathetically. 

“Rotten dull.” 

“You don’t mean business too, do you?” 

“Yes, that’s also on the bum. ... I did Contrive 
to sell a small house the other day — and blew myself 
to this overcoat.” 

“Is that so unusual?” asked Estridge, smiling, “ — to 
sell a house in town?” 

“Yes, it’s a miracle in these days. Tell me, Jack, 
how did you get on in Russia?” * 

“Too many Reds. We couldn’t do much. They’ve 
got it in for everybody except themselves.” 

“The socialists?” 

“Not the social revolutionists. I’m talking about 
the Reds.” 

“Didn’t they make the revolution?” 

“They did not.” 

“Well, who are the Reds, and what is it they want?” 

“They want to set the world on fire. Then they 
want to murder and rob everybody with any education. 
Then they plan to start things from the stone age 
again. They want loot and blood. That’s really all 
they want. Their object is to annihilate civilisation by 
exterminating the civilised. They desire to start all 
over from first principles — without possessing any — 
and turn the murderous survivors of the human massa- 
cre into one vast, international pack of wolves. And 
they’re beginning to do it in Russia.” 

“A pleasant programme,” remarked Shotwell. “No 

70 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


wonder you beat it, J ack. I recently met a woman who 
had just arrived from Russia. They murdered her best 
friend — one of the little Grand Duchesses. She simply 
can’t talk about it.” 

“That was a beastly business,” nodded Estridge. 
“I happen to know a little about it.” 

“Were you in that district?” 

“Well, no, — not when that thing happened. But some 
little time before the Bolsheviki murdered the Imperial 
family I had occasion to escort an American girl to 
the convent where they were held under detention. 
. . . An exceedingly pretty girl,” he added absently. 

“She was once companion to one of the murdered Im- 
perial children.” 

Shotwell glanced up quickly: “Her name, by any 
chance, doesn’t happen to be Palla Dumont?” 

“Why, yes. Do you know her?” 

“I sold her that house I was telling you about. Do 
you know her well, Jack?” 

Estridge smiled. “Yes and no. Perhaps I know her 
better than she suspects.” 

Shotwell laughed, recollecting his friend’s inclination 
for analysing character and his belief in his ability to 
do so. 

“Same old scientific vivisectionist !” he said. “So 
you’ve been dissecting Palla Dumont, have you?” 

“Certainly. She’s a type.” 

“A charming one,” added Shotwell. 

“Oh, very.” 

“But you don’t know her well — outside of having 
mentally vivisected her?” 

Estridge laughed: “Palla Dumont and I have been 
through some rather hair-raising scrapes together. And 
71 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


I’ll admit right now that she possesses all kinds cf 
courage — perhaps too many kinds.” 

“How do you mean?” 

“She has the courage of her convictions and her 
convictions, sometimes, don’t amount to much.” 

“Go on and cut her up,” said Shotwell, sart^istic- 
ally. 

“That’s the only fault I find with Palla Dumont,” 
explained the other. 

“I thought you said she was a type?” 

“She is, — the type of unmarried woman who con- 
tinually develops too much pep for her brain to prop- 
erly take care of.” 

“You mean you consider Palla Dumont neurotic?” 

“No. Nothing abnormal. Perhaps super-normal — 
pathologically speaking. Bodily health is fine. But 
over-secretion of ardent energy sometimes disturbs one’s 
mental equilibrium. The result, in a crisis, is likely 
to result in extravagant behavior. Martyrs are made 
of such stuff, for example.” 

“You think her a visionary?” 

“Well, her reason and her emotions sometimes be- 
come rather badly entangled, I fancy.” 

“Don’t everybody’s ?” 

“At intervals. Then the thing to do is to keep per- 
fectly cool till the fit is over.” 

“So you think her impulsive?” 

“Well, I should say so !” smiled Estridge. “Of course 
I mean nicely impulsive — even nobly impulsive. 

But that won’t help her. Impulse never helped any- 
body. It’s a spoke in the wheel — a stumbling block — 
a stick to trip anybody. . . . Particularly a girl. 

. And Palla Dumont mistakes impulse for 
logic. She honestly thinks that she reasons.” He 
72 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


smiled to himself: “A disturbingly pretty girl,” he 
murmured, “with a tender heart . . . which seems 

to do all her thinking for her. . , . How well do 

you know her, Jim ?” 

“Not well. But I’m going to, I hope.” 

Estridge glanced up interrogatively, suddenly re- 
membering all the uncontradicted gossip concerning a 
tacit understanding between Shotwell, Jr., and Elorn 
Sharrow. It is true that no engagement had been an- 
nounced ; but none had been denied, either. And Miss 
Sharrow had inherited her mother’s fortune. And Shot- 
well, Jr., made only a young man’s living. 

“You ought to be rather careful with such a girl,” 
he remarked carelessly. 

“How, careful?” 

“Well, she’s rather perilously attractive, isn’t she?” 
insisted Estridge smilingly. 

“She’s extremely interesting.” 

“She certainly is. She’s rather an amazing girl in 
her way. More amazing than perhaps you imagine.” 

“Amazing?” 

“Yes, even astounding.” 

“For example?” 

“I’ll give you an example. When the Reds invaded 
that convent and seized the Czarina and her children, 
Palla Dumont, then a novice of six weeks, attempted 
martyrdom by pretending that she herself was the little 
Grand Duchess Marie. And when the Reds refused 
to believe her, she demanded the privilege of dying 
beside her little friend. She even insulted the Reds, 
defied them, taunted them until they swore to return 
and cut her throat as soon as they finished with the 
Imperial family. And then this same Palla Dumont, to 
whom you sold a house in New York the other day, 
73 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


flew into an ungovernable passion; tried to batter her 
way into the cellar; shattered half a dozen chapel 
chairs against the oak door of the crypt behind which 
preparations for the assassination were taking place; 
then, helpless, called on God to interfere and put a 
stop to it. And, when deity, as usual, didn’t interfere 
with the scheme of things, this girl tore the white veil 
from her face and the habit from her body and de- 
nounced as nonexistent any alleged deity that permitted 
such things to be.” 

Shotwell gazed at Estridge in blank astonishment. 

“Where on earth did you hear all that dope?” he 
demanded incredulously. 

Estridge smiled: “It’s all quite true, Jim. And 
Palla Dumont escaped having her slender throat slit 
open only because a sotnia of Kaladines’ Cossacks can- 
tered up, discovered what the Reds were up to in the 
cellar, and beat it with Palla and another girl just in 
the nick of time.” 

“Who handed you this cinema stuff?” 

“ The other girl” 

“You believe her?” 

“You can judge for yourself. This other girl was a 
young Swedish soldier who had served in the Battalion 
of Death. It’s really cinema stuff, as you say. But 
Russia, to-day, is just one hell after another in an 
endless and bloody drama. Such picturesque incidents, 
— the wildest episodes, the craziest coincidences — are 
occurring by thousands every day of the year in Rus- 
sia. . . . And, Jim, it was due to one of those daily 

and crazy coincidences that my sleigh, in which I was 
beating it for Helsingfors, was held up by that same 
sotnia of the Wild Division on a bitter day, near the 
borders of a pine forest. 


74 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


“And that’s where I encountered Palla Dumont again. * 
And that’s where I heard — not from her, but from her 
soldier comrade, Ilse Westgard — the story I have just 
told you.” 

For a while they continued to walk up and down 
in silence. 

Finally Estridge said: “ There was a girl for you!” 

“Palla Dumont!” nodded Shotwell, still too aston- 
ished to talk. 

“Nb, the other. . . . An amazing girl. 

Nearly six feet; physically perfect; — what the hu- 
man girl ought to be and seldom is ; — symmetrical, flaw- 
less, healthy — a super-girl . . . like some young 
daughter of the northern gods! . . . Ilse West- 
gard.” 

“One of those women soldiers, you say?” inquired 
Shotwell, mildly curious. 

“Yes. There were all kinds of women in that Death 
Battalion. We saw them, — your friend Palla Dumont 
and I, — saw them halted and standing at ease in a 
birch wood ; saw them marching into fire. . . . 

And there were all sorts of women, Jim ; peasant, 
bourgeoise and aristocrat ; — there were dressmakers, 
telephone operators, servant-girls, students, Red Cross 
nurses, actresses from the Marinsky, Jewesses from the 
Pale, sisters of the Yellow Ticket, Japanese girlis, 
Chinese, Cossack, English, Finnish, French. . . . 

And they went over the top cheering for Russia! 

. . . They went over to shame the army which had 

begun to run from the hun. . , . Pretty fine, 

wasn’t it?” 

“Fine!” 

“You bet! . . . After this war — after what 

women have done the world over — I wonder whether 

75 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


there are any asses left who desire to restrict woman 
to a ‘sphere’? . . . I’d like to see Ilse Westgard 

again,” he added absently. 

“Was she a peasant girl?” 

“No. A daughter of well-to-do people. Quite the 
better sort, I should say. And she was more thoroughly 
educated than the average girl of our own sort. 

A brave and cheerful soldier in the Battalion of Death. 
. . . Ilse Westgard. . . . Amazing, isn’t it?” 

After another brief silence Shotwell ventured : “I sup- 
pose you’d find it agreeable to meet Palla Dumont 
again, wouldn’t you?” 

“Why, yes, of course,” replied the other pleasantly. 

“Then, if you like, she’ll ask us to tea some day — 
after her new house is in shape.” 

“You seem to be very sure about what Palla Dumont 
is likely to do,” said Estridge, smiling. 

“Indeed, I’m not!” retorted Shotwell, with emphasis. 
“Palla Dumont has a mind of her own, — although you 
don’t seem to think so, ” 

“I think she has a will of her own,” interrupted the 
other, amused. 

“Glad you concede her some mental attribute.” 

“I do indeed! I never intimated that she is weak- 
willed. She isn’t. Other and stronger wills don’t 
dominate hers. Perhaps it would be better if they did 
sometimes. ... 

“But no ; Palla Dumont arrives headlong at her own 
red-hot decisions. It is not the will of others that in- 
fluences her; it is their indecision, their lack of will- 
power, their very weakness that seems to stimulate and 
vitally influence such a character as Palla Dumont’s — ” 

“ — Such a character?" repeated Shotwell. “What 
sort of character do you suppose hers to be, anyway? 
76 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


Between you and your psychological and pathological 
surmises you don’t seem to leave her any character at 
all.” 

“I’m telling you,” said Estridge, “that the girl is 
influenced not by the will or desire of others, but by 
their necessities, their distress, their needs. . . 

Or what she believes to be their needs. . . . And 

you may decide for yourself how valuable are the con- 
clusions of an impulsive, wilful, fearless, generous girl 
whose heart regulates her thinking apparatus.” 

“According to you, then, she is practically mindless,” 
remarked Shotwell, ironically. “You medically minded 
gentlemen are wonders! — all of you.” 

“You don’t get me. The girl is clever and in- 
telligent when her accumulated emotions let her brain 
alone. When they interfere, her logic goes to smash 
and she does exaggerated things — like trying to sacri- 
fice herself for her friend in the convent there — like 
tearing off the white garments of her novitiate and 
denouncing deity ! — like embracing an extravagant pan- 
theistic religion of her own manufacture and proclaim- 
ing that the Law of Love is the only law! 

“I’ve heard the young lady on the subject, Jim. 
And, medically minded or not, I’m medically on to her.” 

They walked on together in silence for nearly a 
whole block ; then Estridge said bluntly : 

“She’d be better balanced if she were married and 
had a few children. Such types usually are.” 

Shotwell made no comment. Presently the other 
spoke again: 

“The Law of Love! What rot! That’s sheer hys- 
teria. Follow that law and you become a saint, per- 
haps, perhaps a devil. Love sacred, love profane — 
both, when exaggerated, arise from the same physical 

77 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


condition — too much pep for the mind to distribute. 

“What happens? Exaggerations. Extravagances. 
Hallucinations. Mysticisms. 

“What results? Nuns. Hermits. Yogis. Exhort- 
ers. Fanatics. Cranks. Sometimes . For, from the 
same chrysalis, Jim, may emerge either a vestal, or 
one of those tragic characters who, swayed by this same 
remarkable Law of Love, may give . . . and burn 

on — slowly — from the first lover to the next. And so, 
into darkness.” 

He added, smiling: “The only law of love subscribed 
to by sane people is framed by a balanced brain and 
interpreted by common sense. Those who obey any 
other code go a-glimmering, saint and sinner, novice 
and Magdalene alike. . . . This is your street, I 

believe.” 

They shook hands cordially. 

After dining en famille , Shotwell Junior considered 
the various diversions offered to young business men 
after a day of labour. 

There were theatres; there was the Club de Vingt 
and similar agreeable asylums; there was also a tele- 
phone to ring, and unpremeditated suggestions to make 
to friends, either masculine or feminine. 

Or he could read and improve his mind. Or go to 
Carnegie Hall with his father and mother and listen to 
music of sorts. . . . Or — he could call up Elorn 

Sharrow. 

He couldn’t decide ; and his parents presently derided 
him and departed music-ward without him. He read 
an evening paper, discarded it, poked the fire, stood 
before it, jingled a few coins and keys in his pocket, 
78 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


still undecided, still rather disinclined to any exertion, 
even as far as the club. 

“I wonder,” he thought, “what that girl is doing 
now. I’ve a mind to call her up.” 

He seemed to know whom he meant by “that girl.” 
Also, it was evident that he did not mean Elorn Shar- 
row ; for it was not her number he called and presently 
got. 

“Miss Dumont?” 

“Yes? Who is it?” 

“It’s a mere nobody. It’s only your broker ” 

“What! r 

“Your real-estate broker ” 

“Mr. Shotwell! How.absurd of you!” 

“Why absurd?” 

“Because I don’t think of you merely as a real-estate 
broker.” 

“Then you do sometimes think of me?” 

“What power of deduction! What logic! You seem 
to be in a particularly frivolous frame of mind. Are 
you?” 

“No; I’m in a bad one.” 

“Why?” 

“Because I haven’t a bally thing to do this evening.” 

“That’s silly! — with the entire town outside. . . 

I’m glad you called me up, anyway. I’m tired and 
bored and exceedingly cross.” 

“What are you doing, Miss Dumont?” 

“Absolutely and idiotically nothing. I’m merely 
sitting here on the only chair in this scantily furnished 
house, and trying to plan what sort of carpets, draper- 
ies and furniture to buy. Can you imagine the scene?” 

“I thought you had some things.” 

“I haven’t anything! Not even a decent mirror. I 

79 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


stand on the slippery edge of a bath tub to get a com- 
plete view of myself. And then it’s only by sections.” 

“That’s tragic. Have you a cook?” 

“I have. But no dining room table. I eat from a 
tray on a packing case.” 

“Have you a waitress?” 

“Yes, and a maid. They’re comfortable. I bought 
their furniture immediately and also the batterie-de- 
cuisine. It’s only I who slink about like a perplexed 
cat, from one empty room to another, in search of 
familiar comforts. . . . But I bought a sofa 

to-day. 

“It’s a wonderful sofa. It’s here, now. It’s an 
antique. But I can’t make up my mind how to uphol- 
ster it.” 

“Would you care for a suggestion?” 

“Please!” 

“Well, I’d have to see it ” 

“I thought you’d say that. Really, Mr. Shotwell, 
I’d like most awfully to see you, but this place is too 
uncomfortable. I told you I’d ask you to tea some 
day.” 

“Won’t you let me come down for a few moments this 

evening ” 

“No !” 

“ — And pay you a formal little call ” 

“No. . . . Would you really like to?” 

“I would.” 

“You wouldn’t after you got here. There’s nothing 
for you to sit on.” 

“What about the floor?” 

“It’s dusty.” 

“What about that antique sofa?” 

“It’s not upholstered.” 


80 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


“What do I care! May I come?” 

“Do you really wish to?” 

“I do.” 

“How soon?” 

“As fast as I can get there.” 

He heard her laughing. Then: “I’ll be perfectly 
delighted to see you,” she said. “I was actually think- 
ing of taking to my bed out of sheer boredom. Are 
you coming in a taxi?” 

“Why?” 

He heard her laughing again. 

“No tiling,” she answered, “ — only I thought that 
might be the quickest way — ” Her laughter interrupted 
her, “ — to bring me the evening papers. I haven’t a 
thing to read.” 

“That's why you want me to take a taxi!” 

“It is. News is a necessity to me, and I’m famishing. 
. . . What other reason could there be for a taxi? 

Did you suppose I was in a hurry to see you?” 

He listened to her laughter for a moment : 

“All right,” he said, “I’ll take a taxi and bring a 
book for myself.” 

“And please don’t forget my evening papers or I 
shall have to requisition your book. ... Or possi- 
bly share it with you on the upholstered sofa. 

And I read very rapidly and don’t like being kept wait- 
ing for slower people to turn the page. . . . Mr. 

Shotwell?” 

“Yes.” 

“This is a wonderful floor. Could you bring some 
roller skates?” 

“No,” he said, “but I’ll bring a music box and we’ll 
dance.” 

“You’re not serious ” 


81 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


“I am. Wait and see.” 

1 “Don’t do such a thing. My servants would think 
me crazy. I’m mortally afraid of them, too.” 

He found a toy-shop on Third Avenue still open, 
and purchased a solemn little music-box that played 
ting-a-ling tunes. 

Then, in his taxi, he veered over to Fifth Avenue and 
Forty-second Street, where he bought roses and a 
spray of orchids. Then, adding to his purchases a 
huge box of bon-bons, he set his course for the three 
story and basement house which he had sold to Palla 
Dumont. 


CHAPTER VII 


S HOTWELL SENIOR and his wife were dining 
out that evening. 

Shotwell Junior had no plans — or admitted 
none, even to himself. He got into a bath and later into 
a dinner jacket, in an absent-minded way, and finally 
sauntered into the library wearing a vague scowl. 

The weather had turned colder, and there was an 
open fire there, and a convenient arm-chair and the 
evening papers. 

Perhaps the young gentleman had read them down 
town, for he shoved them aside. Then he dropped an 
elbow on the table, rested his chin against his knuckles, 
and gazed fiercely at the inoffensive Evening Post . 

Before any open fire any young man ought to be 
able to make up whatever mind he chances to possess. 
Yet, what to do with a winter evening all his own 
seemed to him a problem unfathomable. 

Perhaps his difficulty lay only in selection — there are 
so many agreeable things for a young m^tn to do in 
Gotham Town on a winter’s evening. 

But, oddly enough, young Shotwell was trying to 
persuade himself that he had no choice of occupation 
for the evening; that he really didn’t care. Yet, always 
two intrusive alternatives continually presented them- 
selves. The one was to change his coat for a spike-tail, 
his black tie for a white one, and go to the Metropolitan 
83 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


Opera. The other and more attractive alternative was 
not to go. 

Elorn Sharrow would be at the opera. To appear, 
now and then, in the Sharrow family’s box was expected 
of him. He hadn’t done it recently. 

He dropped one lean leg over the other and gazed 
gravely at the fire. He was still trying to convince 
himself that he had no particular plan for the evening 
— that it was quite likely he might go to the opera 
or to the club — or, in fact, almost anywhere his fancy 
suggested. 

In his effort to believe himself the scowl came back, 
denting his eyebrows. Presently he forced a yawn, 
unsuccessfully. 

Yes, he thought he’d better go to the opera, after 
all. He ought to go. ... It seemed to be rather 
expected of him. 

Besides, he had nothing else to do — that is, nothing 
in particular — unless, of course 

But that would scarcely do. He’d been there so 
often recently . . . No, that wouldn’t do 

Besides it was becoming almost a habit with him. 
He’d been drifting there so frequently of late ! . . . 

In fact, he’d scarcely been anywhere at all, recently, 
except — except where he certainly was not going that 
evening. And that settled it ! ... So he might as 
well go to the opera. 

His mother, in scarf and evening wrap, passing the 
library door on her way down, paused in the hall and 
looked intently at her only son. 

Recently she had been observing him rather closely 

84s 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


and with a vague uneasiness born of that inexplicable 
sixth sense inherent in mothers. 

Perhaps what her son had faced in France accounted 
for the change in him; — for it was being said that 
no man could come back from such scenes unchanged; 
— none could ever again be the same. And it was 
being said, too, that old beliefs and ideals had altered ; 
that everything familiar was ending; — and that the 
former things had already passed away under the 
glimmering dawn of a new heaven and a new earth. 

Perhaps all this was so — though she doubted it. 
Perhaps this son she had borne in agony might become 
to her somebody less familiar than the baby she had 
nursed at her own breast. 

But so far, to her, he continued to remain the same 
familiar baby she had always known — the same and 
utterly vital part of her soul and body. No sudden 
fulfilment of an apocalypse had yet wrought any occult 
metamorphosis in this boy of hers. 

And if he now seemed changed it was from that simple 
and familiar cause instinctively understood by moth- 
ers, — trouble ! — the most ancient plague of all and the 
only malady which none escapes. 

She was a rather startlingly pretty woman, with the 
delicate features and colour and the snow-white hair 
of an 18th century belle. She stood, now, drawing on 
her gloves and watching her son out of dark-fringed 
deep blue eyes, until he glanced around uneasily. Then 
he rose at once, looking at her with fire-dazzled eyes. 

“Don’t rise, dear,” she said; “the car is here and 
your father is* fussing and fuming in the drawing-room, 
and I’ve got to run. . . . Have you any plans 

for the evening?” 

“None, mother.” 


85 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


“You’re dining at home?” 

“Yes.” 

“Why don’t you go to the opera to-night? It’s the 
Sharrows’ night.” 

He came toward her irresolutely. “Perhaps I shall,” 
he said. And instantly she knew he did not intend 
to go. 

“I had tea at the Sharrows’,” she said, carelessly, 
still buttoning her gloves. “Elorn told me that she 
hadn’t laid eyes on you for ages.” 

“It’s happened so. . . . I’ve had a lot of things 

to do ” 

“You and she still agree, don’t you, Jim?” 

“Why, yes — as usual. We always get on together.” 

Helen Shotwell’s ermine wrap slipped; he caught it 
and fastened it for her, and she took hold of both his 
hands and drew his arms tightly around her pretty 
shoulders. 

“What troubles you, darling?” she asked smilingly, 

“Why, nothing, mother ” 

“Tell me!” 

“Really, there is nothing, dear ” 

“Tell me when you are ready, then,” she laughed and 
released him. 

“But there isn’t anything,” he insisted. 

“Yes, Jim, there is. Do you suppose I don’t know 
you after all these years ?” 

She considered him with clear, amused eyes: “Don’t 
forget,” she added, “that I was only seventeen when 
you arrived, my son; and I have grown up with you 
ever since ” 

“For heaven’s sake, Helen! — ” protested Sharrow 
Senior plaintively from the front hall below. “Can’t 
you gossip with Jim some other time?” 

86 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


“I’m on my way, James,” she announced calmly. 
“Put your overcoat on.” And, to her son : “Go to the 
opera. Elom will cheer you up. Isn’t that a good 
idea?” 

“That’s — certainly — an idea. . . . I’ll think 

it over. . . . And, mother, if I seem solemn at 

times, please try to remember how rotten every fellow 
feels about being out of the service ” 

Her gay, derisive laughter checked him, warning him 
that he was not imposing on her credulity. She said 
smilingly : » 

“You have neglected Elorn Sharrow, and you know 
it, and it’s on your conscience — whatever else may be 
on it, too. And that’s partly why you feel blue. So 
keep out of mischief, darling, and stop neglecting 
Elorn — that is, if you ever really expect to marry 
her ” 

“I’ve told you that I have never asked her; and I 
never intend to ask her until I am making a decent 
living,” he said impatiently. 

“Isn’t there an understanding between you?” 

“Why — I don’t think so. There couldn’t be. We’ve 
never spoken of that sort of thing in our lives!” 

“I think she expects you to ask her some day. 
Everybody else does, anyway.” 

“Well, that is the one thing I won't do,” he said, 
“ — go about with the seat out of my pants and ask 
an heiress to sew on the patch for me ” 

“Darling! You can be so common when you try!” 

“Well, it amounts to that — doesn’t it, mother? I 
don’t care what busy gossips say or idle people expect 
me to do! There’s no engagement, no understanding 
between Elorn and me. And I don’t care a hang what 
anybody ” 


87 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


His mother framed his slightly flushed face between 
her gloved hands and inspected him humorously. 

“Very well, dear,” she said; “but you need not be 
so emphatically excited about it ” 

“I’m not excited — but it irritates me to be ex- 
pected to do anything because it’s expected of me — ” 
He shrugged his shoulders: 

“After all,” he added, “if I ever should fall in love 
with anybody it’s my own business. And whatever I 
choose to do about it will be my own affair. And I 
shall keep my own counsel in any event.” 

His mother stepped forward, letting both her hands 
fall into his. 

“Wouldn’t you tell me about it, Jim?” 

“I’d tell you before I’d tell anybody else — if it ever 
became serious.” 

“If what became serious?” 

“Well — anyhing of that sort,” he replied. But a 
bright colour stained his features and made him wince 
under her intent scrutiny. 

She was worried, now, though her pretty, humorous 
smile still challenged him with its raillery. 

But it was becoming very evident to her that if this 
boy of hers were growing sentimental over any woman 
the woman was not Elorn Sharrow. 

So far she had held her son’s confidence. She must 
do nothing to disturb it. Yet, as she looked at him 
with the amused smile still edging her lips, she began 
for the first time in her life to be afraid. 

They kissed each other in silence. 

In the limousine, seated beside her husband, she said 
presently: “I wish Jim would marry Elorn Sharrow.” 

“He’s likely to some day, isn’t he?” 

88 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


“I don’t think so.” 

“Well, there’s no hurry,” remarked her husband. 
“He ought not to marry anybody until he’s thirty, and 
he’s only twenty-four. I’m glad enough to have him 
remain at home with us.” 

“But that’s what worries me ; he doesn't!” 

“Doesn’t what?” 

“Doesn’t remain at home.” 

Her husband laughed: “Well, I meant it merely in 
a figurative sense. Of course Jim goes out ” 

“Where?” 

“Why, everywhere, I suppose,” said her husband, a 
little surprised at her tone. 

She said calmly: “I hear things — pick up bits of 
gossip — as all women do. . . . And at a tea the 

other day a man asked me why Jim never goes to his 
clubs any more. So you see he doesn’t go to any of 
his clubs when he goes ‘out’ in the evenings. . . . 

And he’s been to no dances — judging from what is 
said to me. . . . And he doesn’t go to see Elorn 

Sharrow any more. She told me that herself. So — 
where does he go?” 

“Well, but ” 

“Where does he go — every evening?” 

“I’m sure I couldn’t answer ” 

“Every evening!” she repeated absently. 

“Good heavens, Helen- ” 

“And what is on that boy’s mind? There’s some- 
thing on it.” 

“His business, let us hope ” 

She shook her head: “I know my son,” she remarked. 

“So do I. What is particularly troubling you, dear? 
There’s something you haven’t told me.” 

“I’m merely wondering who that girl was who lunched 

89 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


with him at Delmonico’s — three times — last week,” 
mused his wife. 

“Why— she’s probably all right, Helen. A man 
doesn’t take the other sort there.” 

“So I’ve heard,” she said drily. 

“Well, then?” 

“Nothing. . . . She’s very pretty, I understand. 

. . . And wears mourning.” 

“What of it?” he asked, amused. She smiled at him, 
but there was a trace of annoyance in her voice. 

“Don’t you think it very natural that I should wonder 
who any girl is who lunches with my son three times 
in one week? . . . And is remarkably pretty, be- 

sides ?” 

The girl in question looked remarkably pretty at that 
very moment, where she sat at her desk, the telephone 
transmitted tilted toward her, the receiver at her ear, 
and her dark eyes full of gayest malice. 

“Miss Dumont, please?” came a distant and familiar 
voice over the wire. The girl laughed aloud; and he 
heard her. 

“You said you were not going to call me up.” 

“Is it you , Palla?” 

“How subtle of you!” 

He said anxiously. “Are you doing anything this 
evening — by any unhappy chance ” 

“I am.” 

“Oh, hang it! What are you doing?” 

“How impertinent !” 

“You know I don’t mean it that way ” 

“I’m not sure. However, I’ll be kind enough to tell 
you what I’m doing. I’m sitting here at my desk, 
listening to an irritable young man ” 

90 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


“That’s wonderful luck!” he exclaimed joyously. 

“Wonderful luck for a girl to sit at a desk and listen 
to an irritable young man?” 

“If you’ll stop talking bally nonsense for a moment 
, » 

“If you bully me, I shall stop talking altogether!” 

“For heaven’s sake ” 

“I hear you, kind sir ; you need not shout !” 

He said humbly: “Palla, would you let me drop 
in ” 

“Drop into what? Into poetry? Please do!” 

“For the love of ” 

“Jim! You told me last evening that you expected 
to be at the opera to-night.” 

“I’m not going.” 

“ — So I didn’t expect you to call me!”> 

“Can’t I see you?” he asked. 

“I’m sorry ” 

“The deuce!” 

“I’m expecting some people, Jim. It’s your own fault ; 
I didn’t expect a tete-a-tete with you this evening.” 

“Is it a party you’re giving?” 

“Two or three people. But my place is full of 
flowers and as pretty as a garden. Too bad you can’t 
see it.” 

“Couldn’t I come to your garden-party?” he asked 
humbly. 

“You mean just to see my garden for a moment?” 

“Yes ; let me come around for a moment, anyway — 
if you’re dressed. Are you?” 

“Certainly I’m dressed. Did you think it was to be 
a garden-of-Eden party?” 

Her gay, mischievous laughter came distinctly to 
him over the wire. Then her mood changed abruptly: 
91 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


“You funny boy,” she said, “don’t you understand 
that I want you to come?” 

“You enchanting girl!” he( exclaimed. “Do you 
really mean it?” 

“Of course! And if you come at once we’ll have 
nearly an hour together before anybody arrives.” 

She had that sweet, unguarded way with her at 
moments, and it always sent a faint shock of surprise 
and delight through him. 

Her smiling maid admitted him and took his hat, 
coat and stick as though accustomed to these particular 
articles. 

Palla was alone in the living-room when he was an- 
nounced, and as soon as the maid disappeared she gave 
him both hands in swift welcome — an impulsive, uncon- 
sidered greeting entirely new to them both. 

“You didn’t mind my tormenting you. Did you, 
Jim? I was so happy that you did call me up, after 
all. Because you know you did tell me yesterday 
that you were going to the opera to-night. But all the 
same, when the ’phone rang, somehow I knew it was 
you — I knew it — somehow ” 

She loosened one hand from his and swung him with 
the other toward the piano: “Do you like my flower 
garden? Isn’t the room attractive?” 

“Charming,” he said. “And you are distractingly 
pretty to-night!” 

“In this dull, black gown? But, merely anyway! 
See how effective your roses are! — the ones you sent 
yesterday and the day before! They’re all opening. 
And I went out and bought a lot more, and all that 
fluffy green camouflage ” 

She withdrew her other hand from his without em- 

92 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


barrassment and went over to rearrange a sheaf of 
deep red carnations, spreading the clustered stems to 
wider circumference. 

“What is this party you’re giving, anyway?” he 
asked, following her across the room and leaning beside 
her on the piano, where she still remained very busily 
engaged with her decorations. 

“An impromptu party,” she exclaimed. “I was shop- 
ping this morning — in fact I was buying pots and 
pans for the cook — when somebody spoke to me. And 
I recognised a university student whom I had known 
in Petrograd after the first revolution — Marya Lanois, 
her name is ” 

She moved aside and began to fuss with a huge bowl 
of crimson roses, loosening the blossoms, freeing the 
foliage, and talking happily all the while: 

“Marya Lanois,” she repeated, “ — an interesting 
girl. And with her was a man I had met — a pianist 
— Vanya Tchemov. They told me that another friend 
of mine — a girl named Use Westgard — is now living 
in New York. They couldn’t dine with me, but they’re 
coming to supper. So I also called up Ilse Westgard, 
she’s coming, too; — and I also asked your friend, Mr. 
Estridge. So you see, Monsieur, we shall have a little 
music and much valuable conversation, and then I shall 
give them some supper ” 

She stepped back from the piano, surveyed her handi- 
work critically, then looked around at him for his 
opinion. 

“Fine,” he said. “How jolly your new house is” — 
glancing about the room at the few well chosen pieces 
of antique furniture, the harmonious hangings and com- 
fortably upholstered modern pieces. 

“It really is beginning to be livable; isn’t it, Jim?” 

93 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


she ventured. “Of course there are many things yet 
to buy ” 

They leisurely made the tour of the white-panelled 
room, looking with approval at the delicate Georgian 
furniture; the mezzotints; the damask curtains of that 
beautiful red which has rose-tints in it, too ; the charm- 
ing old French clock and its lovely gilded garniture ; 
the deep-toned ash-grey carpet under foot. 

Before the mantel, with its wood fire blazing, they 
paused. 

“It’s so enchantingly homelike,” she exclaimed. “I 
already love it all. When I come in from shopping I 
just stand here with my hat and furs on, and gaze 
about and adore everything!” 

“Do you adore me, too?” he asked, laughing at her 
warmth. “You see I’m becoming one of your fixtures 
here, also.” 

In her brown eyes the familiar irresponsible gaiety 
began to glimmer: 

“I do adore you,” she said, “but I’ve no business to.” 

“Why not?” 

She seated herself on the sofa and cast a veiled 
glance at him, enchantingly malicious. 

“Do you think you know me well enough to adore 
me?” she inquired with misleading gravity. 

“Indeed I do ” 

“Am I as easy to know as that? Jim, you humiliate 
me.” 

“I didn’t say that you are easy to know ” 

“You meant it!” she insisted reproachfully. “You 
think so, too — just because I let myself be picked up 
— by a perfectly strange man ” 

“Good heavens, Palla — ” he began nervously; but 

94 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


caught the glimmer in her lowered eyes — saw her child’s 
mouth tremulous with mirth controlled. 

“Oh, Jim!” she said, still laughing, “do you think 
I care how we met? How absurd of you to let me 
torment you. You’re altogether too boyish, too self- 
conscious. You’re loaded down with all the silly tradi- 
tions which I’ve thrown away. I don’t care how we 
met. I’m glad we know each other.” 

She opened a silver box on a little table at her 
elbow, chose a cigarette, lighted it, and offered it to 
him. 

“I rather like the taste of them now,” she remarked, 
making room for him on the sofa beside her. 

When he was seated, she reached up to a jar of 
flowers on the piano, selected a white carnation, broke 
it short, and then drew the stem through his lapel, 
patting the blossom daintily into a pom-pon. 

“Now,” she said gaily, “if you’ll let me, I’ll straighten 
your tie. Shall I?” 

He turned toward her; she accomplished that deftly, 
then glanced across at the clock. 

“We’ve only half an hour longer to ourselves,” she 
exclaimed, with that unconscious candour which always 
thrilled him. Then, turning to him, she said laugh- 
ingly: “Does it really matter how two people meet 
when time races with us like that?” 

“And do you realise,” he said in a low, tense voice, 
“that since I met you every racing minute has been 
sweeping me headlong toward you?” 

She was so totally unprepared for the deeper emo- 
tion in his voice and bearing — so utterly surprised — 
that she merely gazed at him. 

“Haven’t you been aware of it, Palla?” he said, look- 
ing her in the eyes. 


95 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


“Jim!” she protested, “you are disconcerting! You 
never before have taken such a tone toward me.” 

She rose, walked over to the clock, examined it 
minutely for a few moments. Then she turned, cast a 
swift, perplexed glance at him, and came slowly back 
to resume her place on the sofa. 

“Men should be very, very careful what they say 
to me.” As she lifted her eyes he saw them beginning 
to glimmer again with that irresponsible humour he 
knew so well. 

“Be careful,” she said, her brown gaze gay with 
warning; “ — I’m godless and quite lawless, and I’m 
a very dangerous companion for any well-behaved and 
orthodox young man who ventures to tell me that 
I’m adorable. Why, you might as safely venture to 
adore Diana of the Ephesians ! And you know what she 
did to her admirers.” 

“She was really Aphrodite, wasn’t she?” he said, 
laughing. 

“Aphrodite, Yenus, Isis, Lada — and the Ephesian 
Diana — I’m afraid they all were hussies. But I’m 
a hussy, too, Jim! If you doubt it, ask any well 
brought up girl you know and tell her how we met and 
how we’ve behaved ever since, and what obnoxious 
ideas I entertain toward all things conventional and 
orthodox !” 

“Palla, are you really serious? — I’m never entirely 
sure what is under your badinage.” 

“Why, of course I am serious. I don’t believe in 
any of the things that you believe in. I’ve often told 
you so, though you don’t believe me ” 

“Nonsense!” 

“I don’t, I tell you. I did once. But I’m awake. 
No ‘threats of hell or hopes of any sugarv paradise’ 
96 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


influence me. Nor does custom and convention. Nor 
do the laws and teachings of our present civilisation 
matter one straw to me. I’d break every law if it 
suited me.” 

He laughed and lifted her hand from her lap: “You 
funny child,” he said, “you wouldn’t steal, for example 
* — would you?” 

“I don’t desire to.” 

“Would you commit perjury?” 

“No !” 

“Murder?” 

“I have a law of my own, kind sir. It doesn’t 
happen to permit murder, arson, forgery, piracy, 
smuggling ” 

Their irresponsible laughter interrupted her. 

“What else wouldn’t you do?” he managed to ask. 

“I wouldn’t do anything mean, deceitful, dishonest, 
cruel. But it’s not your antiquated laws — it’s my own 
and original law that governs my conduct.” 

“You always conform to it?” 

“I do. But you don’t conform to yours. So I’ll 
try to help you remember the petty but always sacred 
conventions of our own accepted code ” 

And, with unfeigned malice, she began to disengage 
her hand from his — loosened the slim fingers one by 
one, all the while watching him sideways with prim 
lips pursed and lifted eyebrows. 

“Try always to remember,” she said, “that, accord- 
ing to your code, any demonstration of affection toward 1 
a comparative stranger is exceedingly bad form.” 

However, he picked up her hand again, which she 
had carelessly left lying on the sofa near his, and again 
she freed it, leisurely. 

They conversed animatedly, as always, discussing 

97 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


matters of common interest, yet faintly in her ears 
sounded the unfamiliar echo of passion. 

It haunted her mind, too — an indefinable undertone 
delicately persistent — until at last she sat mute, absent- 
minded, while he continued speaking. 

Her stillness — her remote gaze, perhaps — presently 
silenced him. And after a little while she turned her 
charming head and looked at him with that uninten- 
tional provocation born of virginal curiosity. 

What had moved him so unexpectedly to deeper 
emotion? Had she? Had she, then, that power? And 
without effort? — For she had been conscious of none. 
. . . But — if she tried. . . . Had she the 

power to move him again? 

Naive instinct — the emotionless curiosity of total in- 
experience — everything embryonic and innocently ruth- 
less in her was now in the ascendant. 

She lifted her eyes and considered him with the 
speculative candour of a child. She wished to hear once 
more that unfamiliar something in his voice — see it in 
his features 

And she did not know how to evoke it. 

“Of what are you thinking, Palla?” 

“Of you,” she answered candidly, without other in- 
tention than the truth. And saw, instantly, the inde- 
finable something born again into his eyes. 

Calm curiosity, faintly amused, possessed her — left 
him possessed of her hand presently. 

“Are you attempting to be sentimental?” she asked. 

Very leisurely she began once more to disengage her 
hand — loosening the fingers one by one — and watching 
him all the while with a slight smile edging her lips. 
Then, as his clasp tightened: 

“Please,” she said, “may I not have my freedom?” 

98 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


“Do you want it?” 

“You never did this before — touched me — unneces- 
sarily.” 

As he made no answer, she fell silent, her dark eyes 
vaguely interrogative as though questioning herself as 
well as him concerning this unaccustomed contact. 

His head had been bent a little. Now he lifted it. 
Neither was smiling. 

Suddenly she rose to her feet and stood with her 
head partly averted. He rose, too. Neither spoke. 
But after a moment she turned and looked straight at 
him, the virginal curiosity clear in her eyes. And he 
took her into his arms. 

Her arms had fallen to her side. She endured his lips 
gravely, then turned her head and looked at the roses 
beside her. 

“I was afraid,” she said, “that we would do this. 
Now let me go, Jim.” 

He released her in silence. She walked slowly to the 
mantel and set one slim foot on the fender. 

Without looking around at him she said : “Does this 
spoil me for you, Jim?” 

“You darling ” 

“Tell me frankly. Does it?” 

“What on earth do you mean, Palla! Does it spoil 
me for you?” 

“I’ve been thinking. . . . No, it doesn’t. But 

I wondered about you.” 

He came over to where she stood. 

“Dear,” he said unsteadily, “don’t you know I’m 
very desperately in love with you?” 

At that she turned her enchanting little head toward 
him. 


99 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


“If you are,” she said, “there need be nothing des- 
perate about it.” 

“Do you mean you care enough to marry me, you 
darling?” he asked impetuously. “Will you, Palla?” 

“Why, no,” she said candidly. “I didn’t mean that. 
I meant that I care for you quite as much as you care 
for me. So you need not be desperate. But I really 
don’t think we are in love — I mean sufficiently — for 
anything serious.” 

“Why don’t you think so !” he demanded impatiently. 

“Do you wish me to be quite frank?” 

“Of course!” 

“Very well.” She lifted her head and let her clear 
eyes rest on his. “I like you,” she said. “I even like 
— what we did. I like you far better than any man 
I ever knew. But I do not care for you enough to give 
up my freedom of mind and of conduct for your asking. 
I do not care enough for you to subscribe to your 
religion and your laws. And that’s the tragic truth.” 

“But what on earth has all that to do with it? I 
haven’t asked you to believe as I believe or to subscribe 
to any law ” 

Her enchanting laughter filled the room: “Yes, you 
have! You asked me to marry you, didn’t you?” 

“Of course!” 

“Well, I can’t, Jim, because I don’t believe in the 
law of marriage, civil or religious. If I loved you 
I’d live with you unmarried. But I’m afraid to try it. 
And so are you. Which proves that I’m not really in 
love with you, or you with me ” 

The door bell rang. 

“But I do care for you,” she whispered, bending 
swiftly toward him. Her lips rested lightly on his a 
100 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


moment, then she turned and walked out into the centre 
of the room. 

The maid announced: “Mr. Estridge!” 


CHAPTER VIII 


Y OUNG Shotwell, still too incredulous to be either 
hurt or angry, stood watching Palla welcoming 
her guests, who arrived within a few minutes of 
each other. 

First came Estridge, — handsome, athletic, standing 
over six feet, and already possessed of that winning and 
reassuring manner which means success for a physician. 

“It’s nice of you to ask me, Palla,” he said. “And 
is Miss Westgard really coming to-night?” 

“But here she is now!” exclaimed Palla, as the maid 
announced her. “ — Use! You astonishing girl! How 
long have you been in New York?” 

And Shotwell beheld the six-foot goddess for the 
first time — gazed with pleasurable awe upon this young 
super-creature with the sea-blue eyes and golden hair 
and a skin of roses and cream. 

“Fancy, Palla!” she said, “I came immediately back 
from Stockholm, but you had sailed on the Elsinore, 
and I was obliged to wait! — Oh! — ” catching sight of 
Estridge as he advanced — “I am so very happy to see 
you again!” — giving him her big, exquisitely sculp- 
tured hand. “Except for Mr. Brisson, we are quite 
complete in our little company of death !” She laughed 
her healthy, undisturbed defiance of that human enemy 
as she named him, gazed rapturously at Palla, acknowl- 
edged Shotwell’s presentation in her hearty, engaging 
way, then turned laughingly to Estridge: 

102 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


“The world whirls like a wheel in a squirrel cage 
vhich we all tread: — only to find ourselves together 
after travelling many, many miles at top speed ! 
. . . Are you well, John Estridge?” 

“Fairly,” he laughed, “but nobody except the im- 
mortals could ever be as well as you, Use Westgard!” 

She laughed in sheer exuberance of her own phys- 
ical vigour: “Only that old and toothless nemesis of 
Ioki can slay me, John Estridge!” And, to Palla: 
“I had some slight trouble in Stockholm. Fancy! — a 
little shrimp of a man approached me on the street one 
evening when there chanced to be nobody near. 

“And the first I knew he was mouthing and grin- 
ning and saying to me in Russian : ‘I know you, hired 
mercenary of the aristocrats ! — I know you ! — big white 
battle horse that carried the bloody war-god!’ 

“I was too astonished, my dear; I merely gazed 
upon this small and agitated toad, who continued to 
run alongside and grimace and pull funny faces at 
me. He appeared to be furious, and he said some 
very vile things to me. 

“I was disgusted and walked faster, and he had to 
run. And all the while he was squealing at me : ‘I know 
you! You keep out of America, do you hear? If 
you sail on that steamer, we follow you and kill you! 
You hear it what I say? We kill! Kill! Kill! ’ ” 

She threw up her superb head and laughed : 

“Can you see him — this insect — Palla ! — so small 
and hairy, with crazy eyes like little sparks among the 
furry whiskers ! — and running, running at heel, under- 
foot, one side and then the other, and squealing ‘Kill! 
Kill! Kill’ ” 

She had made them see the picture and they all 
laughed. 


103 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


“But all the same,” she added, turning to Estridge, 
“from that evening I became conscious that people were 
watching me. 

“It was the same in Copenhagen and in Christiania 
■ — always I felt that somebody was watching me.” 

“Did you have any trouble?” asked Estridge. 

“Well — there seemed to be so many unaccountable 
delays, obstacles in securing proper papers, trouble 
about luggage and steamer accommodations — petty 
annoyances,” she added. “And also I am sure that 
letters to me were opened, and others which I should 
have received never arrived.” 

“You believe it was due to the Reds?” asked Palla. 
“Have they emissaries in Scandinavia?” 

“My dear, their agents and spies swarm everywhere 
over the world !” said Ilse calmly. 

“Not here,” remarked Shotwell, smiling. 

“Oh,” rejoined Ilse quickly, “I ask your pardon, 
but America, also, is badly infested by these people. 
As their Black Plague spreads out over the entire 
world, so spread out the Bolsheviki to infect all with 
the red sickness that slays whole nations!” 

“We have a few local Reds,” he said, unconvinced, 
“but I had scarcely supposed ” 

The bell rang: Miss Lanois and Mr. Tchernov were 
announced, greeted warmly by Palla, and presented. 

Both spoke the beautiful English of educated Rus- 
sians; Yanya Tchernov, a wonderfully handsome youth, 
saluted Palla’s hand in Continental fashion, and met the 
men with engaging formality. 

Shotwell found himself seated beside Marya Lanois, 
a lithe, warm, golden creature with greenish golden 
eyes that slanted, and the strawberry complexion that 
goes with reddish hair. 


104 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


“You are happy,” she said, “with all your streets 
full of bright flags and your victorious soldiers arriv- 
ing home by every troopship. Ah! — but Russia is the 
most unhappy of all countries to-day, Mr. Shotwell.” 

“It’s terribly sad,” he said sympathetically. “We 
Americans don’t seem to know whether to send an 
army to help you, or merely to stand aside and let 
Russia find herself.” 

“You should send troops!” she said. “Is it not 
so, Ilse?” 

“Sane people should unite,” replied the girl, her 
beautiful face becoming serious. “It will arrive at 
that the world over — the sane against the insane.” 

“And it is only the bourgeoisie that is sane,” said 
Yanya Tchemov, in his beautifully modulated voice. 
“The extremes are both abnormal — aristocrats and 
Bolsheviki alike.” 

“We social revolutionists,” said Marya Lanois, 
“were called extremists yesterday and are called re- 
actionists to-day. But we are the world’s balance. 
This war was fought for our ideals; your American 
soldiers marched for them: the hun failed because of 
them.” 

“And there remains only one more war,” said Ilse 
Westgard, — “the war against those outlaws we call 
Capital and Labour — two names for two robbers that 
have disturbed the world’s peace long enough!” 

“Two tyrants,” said Marya, “who trample us to 
war upon each other — who outrage us, crush us, cripple 
us with their ferocious feuds. What are the Bolshe- 
viki? ‘Those who want more.’ Then the name belongs 
as well to the capitalists. They, also, are Bolsheviki 
— ‘men who always want more!’ And these are the 
two quarrelling Bolsheviki giants who trample us — 
105 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


Lord Labour, Lord Capital — the devil of envy against 
the devil of greed! — war to the death! And, to the 
survivor, the bones !” 

Shotwell, a little astonished to hear from the red 
lips of this warm young creature the bitter cynicisms 
of the proletariat, asked her to define more clearly where 
the Bolsheviki stood, and for what they stood. 

“Why,” she said, lying back on the sofa and adjust- 
ing her lithe body to a more luxurious position among 
the pillows, “it amounts to this, Mr. Shotwell, that a 
new doctrine is promulgated in the world — the cult 
of the under-dog. 

“And in all dog-fights, if the under-dog ever gets 
on top, then he, also, will try to kill the ci-devant who 
has now become the under-dog.” And she laughed at 
him out of her green eyes that slanted so enchantingly. 

“You mean that there always will be an under-dog 
in the battle between capital and labour?” 

“Surely. Their snarling, biting, and endless battle 
is a nuisance.” She smiled again: “We should knock 
them both on the head.” 

“You know,” explained Ilse, “that when we speak 
of the two outlaws as Capital and Labour, we don’t 
mean legitimate capital and genuine labour.” 

“They never fight,” added Tchernov, smiling, “be- 
cause they are one and the same.” 

“Of course,” remarked Marya, “even the united 
suffer occasionally from internal pains.” 

“The remedy,” added Vanya, “is to consult a phy- 
sician. That is — arbitration.” 

Ilse said: “Force is good! But one uses it legiti- 
mately only against rabid things.” She turned affec- 
tionately to Palla and took her hands: “Your wonder- 
ful Law of Love solves all phenomena except insanity. 

106 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


With rabies it can not deal. Only force remains to 
solve that problem.” 

“And yet,” said Palla, “so much insanity can be 
controlled by kind treatment.” 

Estridge agreed, but remarked that strait-jackets 
and padded cells would always be necessary in the world. 

“As for the Bolsheviki,” said Marya, turning her 
warm young face to Shotwell with a lissome movement 
of the shoulders, almost caressing, “in the beginning 
we social revolutionists agreed with them and believed 
m them. Why not? Kerensky was an incapable 
dreamer — so sensitive that if you spoke rudely to 
him he shrank away wounded to the soul. 

“That is not a leader ! And the Cadets were plotting, 
and the Cossacks loomed like a tempest on the horizon. 
And then came Komiloff! And the end.” 

“The peace of Brest,” explained Vanya, in his gentle 
voice, „“awoke us to what the Red Soviets stood for. 
We saw Christ crucified again. And understood.” 

Marya sat up straight on the sofa, running her 
dazzling white fingers over her hair — hair that seemed 
tiger-red, and very vaguely scented. 

“For thirty pieces of silver,” she said, “Judas sold 
the world. What Lenine and Trotsky sold was paid 
for in yellow metal, and there were more pieces.” 

Use said : “Babushka is dying of it. That is enough 
for me.” 

Vanya replied: “Where the source is infected, drink- 
ers die at the river’s mouth. Little Marie Spiridonova 
perished. Countess Panina succumbed. Alexandria 
Kolontar will die from its poison. And, as these died, 
so shall Ivan and Vera die also, unless that polluted 
source be cleansed.” 


107 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


Marya rested her tawny young head on the cushions 
again and smiled at Shotwell: 

“It’s confusing even to Russians,” she said, “ — like 
a crazy Bakst spectacle at the Marinsky. I wonder 
what you must think of us.” 

But on her expressive mouth the word “us” might 
almost have meant “me,” and he paid her the easy com- 
pliment which came naturally to him, while she looked 
at him out of lazy and very lovely eyes as green as 
beryls. 

“ Tiche she murmured, smiling, “ ce n’est pas moi 
Vet at, monsieur .” And laughed while her indolent 
glance slanted sideways on Vanya, and lingered there 
as though in leisurely but amiable appraisal. 

The girl was evidently very young, but there seemed 
to be an indefinable something about her that hinted 
of experience beyond her years. 

Palla had been looking at her — from Shotwell to 
her — and Marya’s sixth sense was already aware of it 
and asking why. 

For between two females of the human species the 
constant occult interplay is like steady lighting. With 
invisible antennae they touch one another incessantly, 
delicately exploring inside that grosser aura which is 
all that the male perceives. 

And finally Marya looked back at Palla. 

“May Mr. Tchernov play for us ?” asked Palla, smil- 
ing, as though some vague authority in the matter 
were vested in this young girl with the tiger-hair. 

Her eyes closed indolently, and opened again as 
though digesting the subtlety: then, disdainfully ac- 
cepting the assumption: “Oh, Vanya,” she called out 
carelessly, “play a little for us.” 

The handsome youth bowed in his absent, courteous 

108 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


way. There was about him a simplicity entirely win- 
ning as he seated himself at the piano. 

But his playing revealed a maturity and nobility 
of mind scarcely expected of such gentleness and youth. 

Never had Palla heard Beethoven until that moment. 

He did not drift. There was no caprice to offend 
when he turned with courtly logic from one great 
master to another. 

Only when Estridge asked for something “typically 
Russian” did the charming dignity of the sequence 
break. Vanya laughed and looked at Marya Lanois: 

“That means you must sing,” he said. 

She sang, resting where she was among the silken 
cushions ; — the song, one of those epics of ancient 
Moscow, lauded Ivan IV. and the taking of Kazan. 

The music was bizarre; the girl’s voice bewitching; 
and though the song was of the Beliny , it had been 
made into brief couplets, and it ended very quickly. 

Laughing at the applause, she sang a song of the 
SkomaroJchi ; then a cradle song, infinitely tender and 
strange, built upon the Chinese scale; and another — 
a Cossack song — built, also, upon the pentatonic scale. 

Discussions intruded then; the diversion ended the 
music. 

Palla presently rose, spoke to Vanya and Estridge, 
and came over to where Jim Shotwell sat beside Marya. 

Interrupted, they both looked up, and Jim rose as 
Estridge also presented himself to Marya. 

Palla said: “If you will take me out, Jim, we can 
show everybody the way.” And to Marya: “Just a 
little supper, you know — but the dining room is below.” 

Her pretty drawing-room was only partly furnished 

v 109 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


— an expensive but genuine set of old Aubusson being 
her limit for the time. 

But beyond, in the rear, the little glass doors opened 
on a charming dining-room, the old Georgian mahog- 
any of which was faded to a golden hue. Curtains, 
too, were golden shot with palest mauve; and two 
Imperial Chinese panels of ancient silk, miraculously 
embroidered and set with rainbow Ho-ho birds, were 
the only hangings on the walls. And they seemed to 
illuminate the room like sunshine. 

Shotwell, who knew nothing about such things but 
envisaged them with reverence, seated Palla and pres- 
ently took his place beside her. 

His neighbour on his left was Marya, again — an ar- 
rangement which Palla might have altered had it 
occurred to her upstairs. 

Estridge, very animated, and apparently happy, re- 
called to Palla their last dinner together, and their 
dance. 

Palla laughed: “You said I drank too much cham- 
pagne, John Estridge! Do you remember?” 

“You bet I do. You had a cunning little bunn, 

Palla ■” 

“I did not! I merely asked you and Mr. Brisson 
what it felt like to be intoxicated.” 

“You did your best to be a sport,” he insisted, 
“but you almost passed away over your first cigarette !” 

“Darling!” cried Ilse, “don’t let them tease you!” 

Palla, rather pink, laughingly denied any aspira- 
tions toward sportdom; and she presently ventured a 
glance at Shotwell, to see how he took all this. 

But already Marya had engaged him in half smiling, 
low-voiced conversation ; and Palla looked at her golden- 
green eyes and warm, rich colouring, cooled by a skin 
110 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


of snow. Tiger-golden, the rousse ensemble; the 
supple movement of limb and body fascinated her; 
but most of all the lovely, slanting eyes with their 
glint of beryl amid melting gold. 

Estridge spoke to Marya ; as the girl turned slightly, 
Palla said to Shotwell: 

“Do you find them interesting — my guests?” 

He turned instantly to her, but it seemed to her as 
though there were a slight haze in his eyes — a fixedness 
— which cleared, however, as he spoke. 

“They are delightful — all of them,” he said. “Your 
blond goddess yonder is rather overpowering, but 
beautiful to gaze upon.” 

“And Vanya?” 

“Charming ; astonishing.” 

“Lovable,” she said. 

“He seems so.” 

“And — Marya ?” 

“Rather bewildering,” he replied. “Fascinating, I 
should say. Is she very learned?” 

“I don’t know.” 

“She’s been in the universities.” 

“Yes. ... I don’t know how learned she is.” 

“She is very young,” he remarked. 

It was on the tip of Palla’s tongue to say something; 
and she remained silent — lest' this man misinterpret her 
motive — and, perhaps, lest her own conscience misinter- 
pret it, too. 

Use said it to Estridge, however, frankly insouciant: 

“You know Marya and Vanya are married — that is, 
they live together.” 

And Shotwell heard her. 

“Is that true?” he said in a low voice to Palla. 

“Why, yes.” 


Ill 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


He remained silent so long that she added: “The tie 
is not looser than the old-fashioned one. More rigid, 
perhaps, because they are on their honour.” 

“And if they tire of each other?” 

“You, also, have divorce,” said the girl, smiling. 

“Do you?” 

“It is beastly to live together where love does not 
exist. People who believe as they do — as I do — merely 
separate.” 

“And contract another alliance if they wish?” 

“Do not your divorcees remarry if they wish?” 

“What becomes of the children?” he demanded 
sullenly. 

“What becomes of them when your courts divorce 
their parents?” 

“I see. It’s all a parody on lawful regularity.” 

“I’m sorry you speak of it that way ” 

The girl’s face flushed and she extended her hand 
toward her wine glass. 

“I didn’t intend to hurt you, Palla,” he said. 

She drew a quick breath, looked up, smiled: “You 
didn’t mean to,” she said. Then into her brown eyes 
came the delicious glimmer: 

“May I whisper to you, Jim? Is it too rude?” 

He inclined his head and felt the thrill of her breath : 

“Shall we drink one glass together — to each other 
alone?” 

“Yes.” 

“To a dear comradeship, and close! . . . And 

not too desperate!” she added, as her glance flashed 
into hidden laughter. 

They drank, not daring to look toward each other. 
And Palla’s careless gaze, slowly sweeping the circle, 
finally met Marya’s — as she knew it must. Both smiled, 
112 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


touching each other at once with invisible antennae — 
always searching, exploring under the glimmering aura 
what no male ever discovered or comprehended. 

There was, in the living room above, a little more 
music — a song or two before the guests departed. 

Marya, a little apart, turned to Shotwell: 

“You find our Russian folk-song amusing?” 

“Wonderful !” 

“If, by any chance, you should remember that I am 
at home on Thursdays, there is a song I think that 
might interest you.” She let her eyes rest on him 
with a curious stillness in their depths : 

“The song is called Lada” she said in a voice so 
low that he just heard her. The next moment she was 
taking leave of Palla; kissed her. Vanya enveloped 
her in her wrap. 

Estridge called up a taxi; and presently went away 
with Ilse. 

Very slowly Palla came back to the centre of the 
room, where Shotwell stood. The scent of flowers was 
in his nostrils, his throat ; the girl herself seemed satu- 
rated with their perfume as he took her into his arms. 

“So you didn’t like my friends, Jim,” she ventured. 

“Yes, I did.” 

“I was afraid they might have shocked you.” 

He said drily : “It isn’t a case of being shocked. It’s 
more like being bored.” 

“Oh. Vfy friends bore you?” 

“Their morals do. ... Is Ilse that sort, too?” 

“That sort?” 

“You know what I mean.” 

“I suppose she is.” 


113 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


“Not inclined to bother herself with the formalities 
of marriage?” 

“I suppose not.” 

“It’s a mischievous, ridiculous, immoral business !” he 
said hotly. “Why, to look at you — at Hse — at Miss 
Lanois ” 

“We don’t look like very immoral people, do we?” 
she said, laughingly. 

The light raillery in her laughter angered him, and 
he released her and began to pace the room nervously. 

“See here, Palla,” he said roughly, “suppose I accept 
you at your own valuation!” 

“I value myself very highly, Jim.” 

“So do I. That’s why I ask you to marry me.” 

“And I tell you I don’t believe in marriage,” she 
rejoined coolly. 

“A magistrate can marry us — — ” 

“It makes no difference. A ceremony, civil or re- 
ligious, is entirely out of the question.” 

“You mean,” he said, incensed, “that you refuse to 
be married by any law at all?” 

“My own law is sufficient.” 

“Well — well, then,” he stammered; “ — what — what 
sort of procedure ” 

“None.” 

“You’re crazy,” he said; “ you wouldn’t do that!” 

“If I were in love with you I’d not be afraid.” 

Her calm candour infuriated him: 

“Do you imagine that you and I could ever get away 
with a situation like that !” he blazed out. 

“Why do you become so irritable and excited, Jim? 
We’re not going to try ” 

“Damnation ! I should think not !” he retorted, so 
violently that her mouth quivered. But she kept her 
114 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


head averted until the swift emotion was under control. 

Then she said in a low voice: “If you really think 
me immoral, Jim, I can understand your manner toward 
me. Otherwise ” 

“Palla, dear! Forgive me! I’m just worried 
sick ” 

“You funny boy,” she said with her quick, frank 
smile, “I didn’t' mean to worry you. Listen ! It’s all 
quite simple. I care for you very much indeed. I 
don’t mind your — caressing — me — sometimes. But I’m 
not in love. I just care a lot for you. . . . But 

not nearly enough to love you.” 

“Palla, you’re hopeless!” 

“Why? Because I am so respectful toward love? 
Of course I am. A girl who believes as I do can’t 
afford to make a mistake.” 

“Exactly,” he said eagerly, “but under the law, if 
a mistake is made every woman has her remedy ” 

“Her remedy! What do you mean? You can’t 
pass one of those roses through the flame of that fire 
and still have your rose, can you?” 

He was silent. 

“And that’s what happens under your laws, as well 
as outside of them. No ! I don’t love you. Under 
your law I’d be afraid to marry you. Under mine 
I’m deathly afraid. . . . Because — I know — that 

where love is there can be no fear.” 

“Is that your answer, Palla?” 

“Yes, Jim.” 


CHAPTER IX 


H E had called her up the following morning from 
the office, and had told her that he thought he 
had better not see her for a while. 

And she had answered with soft concern that he must 
do what he thought best without considering her. 

What other answer he expected is uncertain ; but her 
gentle acquiescence in his decision irritated him and he 
ended the conversation in a tone of boyish resentment. 

To occupy his mind there was, that day, not only 
the usual office routine, but some extra business most 
annoying to Sharrow. For Angelo Puma had turned 
up again, as shiny and bland as ever, flashing his 
superb smile over clerk and stenographer impartially. 

So Sharrow shunted him to Mr. Brooke, that sort 
of property being his specialty; and Brooke called in 
Shotwell. 

“Go up town with that preposterous wop and settle 
this business one way or another, once for all,” he 
whispered. “A crook named Skidder owns the prop- 
erty; but we can’t do anything with him. The office 
is heartily sick of both Skidder and Puma ; and Sharrow 
desires to be rid of them.” 

Then, very cordially, he introduced Puma to young 
Shotwell ; and they took Puma’s handsome car and went 
up town to see what could be done with the slippery 
owner of the property in question, who was now per- 
manently located in New York. 

116 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


l On the way, Puma, smelling oppressively aromatic 
and looking conspicuously glossy as to hair, hat, and 
boots, also became effusively voluble. For he had 
instantly recognised Shotwell as the young man with 
whom that disturbingly pretty girl had been in con- 
sultation in Sharrow’s offices ; and his mind was now 
occupied with a new possibility as well as with the 
property which he so persistently desired to acquire. 

“With me,” he said in his animated, exotic way, and 
all creased with smiles, “my cinema business is not busi- 
ness alone! No! It is Art! It is the art hunger that 
ever urges me onward, not the desire for commercial 
gain. For me, beauty is ever first; the box-office last! 
You understand, Mr. Shotwell? With me, art is 
supreme! Yes. And afterward my crust of bread.” 

“Well, then,” said Jim, “I can’t see why you don’t 
pay this man Skidder what he asks for the property.” 

“I tell you why. I make it clear to you. For argu- 
ment — Skidder he has ever the air of one who does 
not care to sell. It is an attitude! I know! But he 
has that air. Well! I say to him, ‘Mr. Skidder, I 
offer you — we say for argument, one dollar! Yes?’ 
Well, he do not say yes or no. He do not say, ‘I take 
a dollar and also one quarter. Or a dollar and a 
half. Or two dollars.’ No. He squint and answer: 
‘I am not anxious to sell!’ My God! What can one 
say? What can one do?” 

“Perhaps,” suggested Jim, “he really doesn’t want 
to sell.” 

“Ah ! That is not so. No. He is sly, Mr. Skidder, 
like there never has been in my experience a man more 
sly. What is it he desires? I ask. I do not know. 
But all the time he inquire about my business if it pays, 
and is there much money in it. Also, I hear, by chan- 
117 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


nels, that he makes everywhere inquiries if the film 
business shall pay.” 

“Maybe he wants to try it himself.” 

“Also, that has occurred to me. But to him I say 
nothing. No. He is too sly. Me, I am all art and 
all heart. Me, I am frank like there never was a man 
in my business! But Skidder, he squint at me. My 
God, those eye! And I do not know what is in his 
thought.” 

“Well, Mr. Puma, what do you wish me to do? As 
I understand it, you are our client, and if I buy for 
you this Skidder property I shall look to you, of course, 
for my commission. Is that what you understand?” 

“My God ! Why should he not pay that commission 
if you are sufficiently obliging to buy from him his 
property ?” 

“It isn’t done that way,” explained Jim drily. 

“You suppose you can buy me this property? Yes?” 

“I don’t know. Of course, I can buy anything for 
you if you’ll pay enough.” 

“My God! I do not enjoy commercial business. No. 

I enjoy art. I enjoy qualities of the heart. I ” 

He looked at Jim out of his magnificent black eyes, 
touched his full lips with a perfumed handkerchief. 

“Yes, sir,” he said, flashing a brilliant smile, “I am 
all heart. But my heart is for art alone! I dedicate 
it to the film, to the moving picture, to beauty! It 
is my constant preoccupation. It is my only thought. 
Art, beauty, the picture, the world made happier, 
better, for the beauty which I offer in my pictures. 
It is my only thought. It is my life.” 

Jim politely suppressed a yawn and said that a 
life devoted purely to art was a laudable sacrifice. 

“As example!” explained Puma, all animation and 
118 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


childlike frankness; “I pay my artists what they ask. 
What is money when it is a question of art? I must 
have quality ; I must have beauty — ” He shrugged : 
“I must pay. Yes?” 

“One usually pays for pulchritude.” 

“Ah! As example! I watch always on the streets 
as I pass by. I see a face. It has beauty. It has 
quality. I follow. I speak. I am frank like there 
never was a man. I say, ‘Mademoiselle, you shall not 
be offended. No. Art has no frontiers. It is my 
art, not I who address you. I am Angelo Puma. The 
Ultra-Film Company is mine. In you I perceive possi- 
bilities. This is my card. If it interests you to have 
a test, come! Who knows? It may be your life’s 
destiny. The projection room should tell. Adieu!’” 

“Is that the way you pick stars?” asked Jim 
curiously. 

“Stars? Bah! I care nothing for stars. No. I 
should go bankrupt. Why? Beauty alone is my star. 
Upon it I drape the mantle of Art !” 

He kissed his fat finger-tips and gazed triumphantly 
at Jim. 

“You see? Out of the crowd of passersby I pick 
the perfect and unconscious rosebud. In my temple 
it opens into perfect bloom. And Art is bom! And' 
I am content. You comprehend?” 

Jim said that he thought he did. 

“As example,” exclaimed Puma vivaciously, “while 
in conversation once with Mr. Sharrow, I beheld enter- 
ing your office a young lady in mourning. Hah! 
Instantly I was all art!” Again he kissed his gloved 
fingers. “A face for a picture! A form for the 
screen! I perceive. I am convinced. . . . You 
recall the event, perhaps, Mr. Shotwell?” 

119 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


“No.” 

“A young lady in mourning, seated beside your desk? 
I believe she was buying from you a house.” 

“Oh.” 

“Her name — Miss Dumont — I believe.” 

Jim glanced at him “Miss Dumont is not likely to do 
anything of that sort,” he said. 

“And why?” 

“You mean go into the movies?” He laughed. “She 
wouldn’t bother.” 

“But — my God! It is Art! what you call movies, 
and, within, this young lady may hide genius. And 
genius belongs to Art. And Art belongs to the world !” 

The unthinkable idea of Palla on the screen was^ 
peculiarly distasteful to him. 

“Miss Dumont has no inclination for the movies,” 
he said. 

“Perhaps, Mr. Shotwell,” purred Puma, “if your 
amiable influence could induce the young lady to have 
a test made ” 

“There isn’t a chance of it,” said Jim bluntly. Their 
limousine stopped just then. They got out before one 
of those new apartment houses on the upper West Side. 

Mr. Skidder, it appeared, was in and would receive 
them. 

A negro servant opened the door and ushered them 
into a parlour where Mr. Elmer Skidder, sprawling 
over the debris of breakfast, laid aside newspaper and 
coffee cup and got up to receive them in bath robe and 
slippers. 

And when they were all seated: “Now, Mr. Skidder,” 
said Jim, with his engaging frankness, “the simplest 
way is the quickest. My client, Mr. Puma, wants to 
120 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


purchase your property; and he is, I understand, 
prepared to pay considerably more than it is worth. 
We all have a very fair idea of its actual value. 
Our appraiser, yours, and other appraisers from 
other companies and corporations seem, for a won- 
der, to agree in their appraisal of this particular prop- 
erty. 

“Now, how much more than it is worth do you expect 
us to offer you?” 

Skidder had never before been dealt with in just this 
way. He squinted at Jim, trying to appraise him. 
But within his business experience in a country town 
no similar young man had he encountered. 

“Well,” he said, “I ain’t asking you to buy, am I?” 

“We understand that,” rejoined Jim, good humoured- 
ly ; “we are asking yow to sell.” 

“You seem to want it pretty bad.” 

“We do,” said the young fellow, laughing. 

“All right. Make your offer.” 

Jim named the sum. 

“No, sir!” snapped Skidder, picking up his news- 
paper. 

“Then,” remarked Jim, looking frankly at Puma, 
“that definitely lets us out.” And, to Skidder: “Many 
thanks for permitting us to interrupt your breakfast. 
No need to bother you again, Mr. Skidder.” And he 
offered his hand in smiling finality. 

“Look here,” said Skidder, “the property is worth 
all I ask.” 

“If it’s worth that to you,” said Jim pleasantly, 
“you should keep it.” And he turned away toward 
the door, wondering why Puma did not follow. 

“Are you two gentlemen in a rush?” demanded 
Skidder. 


121 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


“I have other business, of course,” said Jim. 

“Sit down. Hell! Will you have a drink?” 

When they were again seated, Skidder squinted 
sideways at Angelo Puma. 

“Want a partner?” he inquired. 

“Please?” replied Puma, as though mystified. 

“Want more capital to put into your fillum concern?” 
demanded Skidder. 

Puma, innocently perplexed, asked mutely for an ex- 
planation out of his magnificent dark eyes. 

“I got money,” asserted Skidder. 

Puma’s dazzling smile congratulated him upon the 
accumulation of a fabulous fortune. 

“I had you looked up,” continued Skidder. “It 
listened good. And — I got money, too. And I got 
that property in my vest pocket. See. And there’s 
a certain busted fillum corporation can be bought for 
a postage stamp — all ’ncorporated ’n everything. Y ou 
get me?” 

No; Mr. Puma, who was all art and heart, could 
not comprehend what Mr. Skidder was driving at. 

“This here busted fillum company is called the Super- 
Picture Fillums said Skidder. “What’s the matter 
with you and me buying it? Don’t you ever do a little 
tradin’ ?” 

Jim rose, utterly disgusted, but immensely amused 
at himself, and realising, now, how entirely right 
Sharrow had been in desiring to be rid of this man 
Skidder, and of Puma and the property in question. 

He said, still smiling, but rather grimly : “I see, now, 
that this is no place for a broker who lives by his com- 
missions.” And he bade them adieu with perfect good 
humour. 

“Have a seegar?” inquired Skidder blandly. 

122 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


“ Why do you go, sir?” asked Puma innocently. No 
doubt, being all heart and art, he did not comprehend 
that brokers can not exist on cigars alone. 

His commission had gone glimmering. Sharrow, evi- 
dently foreseeing something of that sort, had sent him 
out with Puma to meet Skidder and rid the office of 
the dubious affair. 

This Jim understood, and yet he was not particularly 
pleased to be exploited by this bland pair who had come 
suddenly to an understanding under his very nose — the 
understanding of two petty, dickering, crossroad trad- 
ers, -which coolly excluded any possibility both of his 
services and of his commission. 

“No ; only a kike lawyer is required now,” he said 
to himself, as he crossed the street and entered Central 
Park. “Pve been properly trimmed by a perfumed 
wop and a squinting yap,” he thought with intense 
amusement. “But we’re well clear of them for good.” 

The park was wintry and unattractive. Few pedes- 
trians were abroad, but motors sparkled along distant 
drives in the sunshine. 

Presently his way ran parallel to one of these drives. 
And he had been walking only a little while when a 
limousine veered in, slowing down abreast of him, and 
lie sa\y a white-gloved hand tapping the pane. 

He felt himself turning red as he went up, hat in 
hand, to open the door and speak to the girl inside. 

“What on earth are you doing?” she demanded, 
laughingly, “ — walking all by your wild lone in the 
park on a wintry day !” 

He explained. She made room for him and he got in. 

“We rather hoped you’d be at the opera last night,” 

123 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


she said, but without any reproach in her voice. 

“I meant to go, Elorn — but something came up to 
prevent it,” he added, flushing again. “Were they 
singing anything new?” 

“Yes, but you missed nothing,” she reassured him 
lightly. “Where on earth have you kept yourself 
these last weeks? One sees you no more among the 
haunts of men.” 

He said, in the deplorable argot of the hour: “Oh, 
I’m off all that social stuff.” 

“But I’m not social stuff, am I?” 

“No. I’ve meant to call you up. Something always 
seems to happen — I don’t know, Elorn, but ever since 
I came back from France I haven’t been up to seeing 
people.” 

She glanced at him curiously. 

He sat gazing out of the window, where there was 
nothing to see except leafless trees and faded grass 
and starlings and dingy sparrows. 

The girl was more worth his attention — one of those 
New York examples, built on lean, rangy, thoroughbred 
lines — long limbed, small of hand and foot and head, 
with cinder-blond hair, greyish eyes, a sweet but too 
generous mouth, and several noticeable freckles. 

Minute grooming and a sure taste gave her that 
ultra-smart appearance which does everything for a 
type that is less attractive in a dinner gown, and still 
less in negligee. And which, after marriage, usually 
lets a straight strand of hair sprawl across one ear. 

But now, coiffeur, milliner, modiste, and her own 
maiden cleverness kept her immaculate — the true 
Gotham model found nowhere else. 

They chatted of parties already past, where he had 
failed to materialise, and of parties to come, where 
124 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


she hoped he would appear. And he said he would. 

They chatted about their friends and the gossip 
concerning them. 

Traffic on Fifth Avenue was rather worse than usual. 
The competent police did their best, but motors and 
omnibuses, packed solidly, moved only by short spurts 
before being checked again. 

“It’s after one o’clock,” she said, glancing at her 
tiny platinum wrist-watch. “Here’s Delmonico’s, Jim. 
Shall we lunch together?*’ 

He experienced a second’s odd hesitation, then : “Cer- 
tainly,” he said. And she signalled the chauffeur. 

The place was beginning to be crowded, but there 
was a table on the Fifth Avenue side. 

As they crossed the crowded room toward it, women 
looked up at Elom Sharrow, instantly aware that 
they saw perfection in hat, gown and fur, and a face 
and figure not to be mistaken for any imitation of 
the Gotham type. 

She wore silver fox — just a stole and muff. Every 
feminine eye realised their worth. 

When they were seated: 

“I want,” she said gaily, “some consomme and a 
salad. You, of course, require the usual nourishment 
of the carnivora.” 

But it seemed not. However, he ordered a high-ball, 
feeling curiously depressed. Then he addressed himself 
to making the hour agreeable, conscious, probably, 
that reparation was overdue. 

Friends from youthful dancing-class days, these two 
had plenty to gossip about; and gradually he found 
himself drifting back into the lively, refreshing, piquant 
intimacy of yesterday. And realised that it was very 
welcome. 


125 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


For, about this girl, always a clean breeze seemed 
to be blowing; and the atmosphere invariably braced 
him up. 

And she was always responsive, whether or not 
agreeing with his views; and he was usually conscious 
of being at his best with her. Which means much to 
any man. 

So she dissected her pear-salad, and he enjoyed his 
whitebait, and they chatted away on the old footing, 
quite oblivious of people around them. 

Elom was having a very happy time of it. People 
thought her captivating now — freckles, mouth and all 
— and every man there envied the fortunate young 
fellow who was receiving such undivided attention from 
a girl like this. 

But whether in Elom’s heart there really existed 
all the gaiety that laughed at him out of her grey 
eyes, is a question. Because it seemed to her that, at 
moments, a recurrent shadow fell across his face. And 
there were, now and then, seconds suggesting pre- 
occupation on his part, when it seemed to her that his 
gaze grew remote and his smile a trifle absent-minded. 

She was drawing on her gloves; he had scribbled 
his signature across the back of the check. Then, as 
he lifted his head to look for their waiter, he found 
himself staring into the brown eyes of Palla Dumont. 

The heavy flush burnt his face — burnt into it, so 
it seemed to him. 

She was only two tables distant. When he bowed, 
her smile was the slightest; her nod coolly self-pos- 
sessed. She was wearing orchids. There seemed to 
be a girl with her whom he did not know. 

Why the sudden encounter should have upset him 

126 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


so — why the quiet glance Elorn bestowed upon Palla 
should have made him more uncomfortable still, he 
could not understand. 

He lighted a cigarette. 

“A wonderfully pretty girl,” said Elom serenely. 
“I mean the girl you bowed to.” 

“Yes, she is very charming.” 

“Who is she, Jim?” 

“I met her on the steamer coming back. She is a 
Miss Dumont.” 

Elorn’s smile was a careless dismissal of further 
interest. But in her heart perplexity and curiosity 
contended with concern. For she had seen Jim’s face. 
And had wondered. 

He laid away his half-consumed cigarette. She was 
quite ready to go. She rose, and he laid the stole 
around her shoulders. She picked up her muff. 

As she passed through the narrow aisle, she per- 
mitted herself a casual side-glance at this girl in black ; 
and Palla looked up at her, kept her quietly in range 
of her brown eyes to the limit of breeding, then her 
glance dropped as Jim passed; and he heard her 
speaking serenely to the girl beside her. 

At the revolving doors, Elorn said: “Shall I drop 
you at the office, Jim?” 

“Thanks — if you don’t mind.” 

In the car he talked continually, not very entertain- 
ingly, but there was more vivacity about him than 
there had been. 

“Are you doing anything to-night?” he inquired. 

She was, of course. Yet, she felt oddly relieved 
that he had asked her. . . . But the memory of 

the strange expression in his face persisted in her mind. 

Who was this girl with whom he had crossed the 

m 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


ocean? And why should he lose his self-possession on 
unexpectedly encountering her? 

Had there been anything about Palla — the faintest 
hint of inferiority of any sort — Elorn Sharrow could 
have dismissed the episode with proud, if troubled, 
philosophy. For many among her girl friends had 
cub brothers. And the girl had learned that men are 
men — sometimes even the nicest — although she could 
not understand it. 

But this brown-eyed girl in black was evidently her 
own sort — Jim’s sort. And that preoccupied her; and 
she lent only an inattentive ear to the animated mono- 
logue of the man beside her. 

Before the offices of Sharrow & Co. her car stopped. 

“I’m sorry, Jim,” she said, “that I’m so busy this 
week. But we ought to meet at many places, unless 
you continue to play the recluse. Don’t you really 
go anywhere any more?” 

“No. But I’m going,” he said bluntly. 

“Please do. And call me up sometimes. Take a 
sporting chance whenever you’re free. We ought to 
get in an hour together now and then. You’re coming 
to my dance of course, are you not?” 

“Of course I am.” 

The girl smiled in her sweet, generous way and gave 
him her hand again. 

And he went into the office feeling rather miserable 
and beginning to realise why. 

For in spite of what he had said to Palla about 
the wisdom of absenting himself, the mere sight of her 
had instantly set him afire. 

And now he wanted to see her — needed to see her. 
A day was too long to pass without seeing her. An 
128 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


evening without her — and another — and others, ap- 
palled him. 

And all the afternoon he thought of her, his mind 
scarcely on his business at all. 

His parents were dining at home. He was very 
gay that evening — very amusing in describing his mis- 
adventures with Messrs. Puma and Skidder. But his 
mother appeared to be more interested in the descrip- 
tion of his encounter with Elorn. 

“She’s such a dear,” she said. “If you go to the 
Speedwells’ dinner on Thursday you’ll see her again. 
You haven’t declined, I hope; have you, Jim?” 

It appeared that he had. 

“If you drop out of things this way nobody will 
bother to ask you anywhere after a while. Don’t you 
know that, dear?” she said. “This town forgets over- 
night.” 

“I suppose so, mother. I’ll keep up.” 

His father remarked that it was part of his business 
to know the sort of people who bought houses. 

Jim agreed with him. “I’ll surely kick in again,” he 
promised cheerfully. ... “I think I’ll go to the 
club this evening.” 

His mother smiled. It was a healthy sign. Also, 
thank goodness, there were no girls in black at the club. 

At the club he resolutely passed the telephone booths 
and even got as far as the cloak room before he 
hesitated. 

Then, very slowly, he retraced his steps; went into 
the nearest booth, and called a number that seemed 
burnt into his brain. Palla answered. 

“Are you doing anything,, dear?” he asked — his 
usual salutation. 


129 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


“Oh. It’s you!” she said calmly. 

“It is. Who else calls you dear? May I come 
around for a little while?” 

“Have you forgotten what you ” 

“No! May I come?” 

“Not if you speak to me so curtly, Jim.” 

“I’m sorry.” 

She deliberated so long that her silence irritated 
him. 

“If you don’t want me,” he said, “please say so.” 

“I certainly don’t want you if you are likely to be 
ill-tempered, Jim.” 

“I’m not ill-tempered. . . . I’ll tell you what’s 

the trouble if I may come. May I?” 

“Is anything troubling you?” 

“Of course.” 

“I’m so sorry !” 

“Am I to come?” 

“Yes.” 

She herself admitted him. He laid his hat and coat 
on a chair in the hall and followed her upstairs to the 
living-room. 

When she had seated herself she looked up at him 
interrogatively, awaiting his pleasure. He stood a 
moment with his back to the fire, his hands twisting 
nervously behind him. Then: 

“My trouble,” he explained naively, “is that I am 
restless and unhappy when I remain away from you.” 

The girl laughed. “But, Jim, you seemed to be 
having a perfectly good time at Delmonico’s this 
noon.” 

He reddened and gave her a disconcerted look. 

“I don’t see,” she added, “why any man shouldn’t 

130 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


have a good time with such an attractive girl. May 
I ask who she is?” 

“Elom Sharrow,” he replied bluntly. 

Palla’s glance had sometimes wandered over social 
columns in the papers and periodicals, and she was not 
ignorant concerning the identity and local importance 
of Miss Sharrow. 

She looked up curiously at Jim. He was so very 
good to look at! Better, even, to know. And Miss 
Sharrow was his kind. They had seemed to belong 
together. And it came to Palla, hazily, and for the 
first time, that she herself seemed to belong nowhere in 
particular in the scheme of things. 

But that was quite all right. She had now estab- 
lished for herself a habitation. She had some friends 
— would undoubtedly make others. She had her inter- 
ests, her peace of mind, and her independence. And 
behind her she had the dear and tragic past — a passion- 
ate memory of a dead girl; a terrible remembrance of 
a dead God. 

The heart of the world alone could make up to her 
these losses. For now she was already preparing to 
seek it in her own way, under her own Law of Love. 

“Jim,” she said almost timidly, “I have not intended 
to make you unhappy. Don’t you understand that?” 

He seated himself : she lighted a cigarette for him. 

“I suppose you can’t help doing it,” he said glumly. 

“I really can’t, it seems. I don’t love you. I wish I 
did.” 

“Do you mean that?” 

“Of course I do. ... I wish I were in love with 
you.” 

After a moment she said: “I told you how much I 

131 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


care for you. But — if you think it is easier for you — 
not to see me ” 

“I can’t seem to stay away.” 

“I’m glad you can’t — for my sake ; but I’m troubled 
on your account. I do so adore to be with you ! But 
—but if ” 

“Hang it all!” he exclaimed, forcing a wry smile. 
“I act like an unbaked fool! You’ve gone to my head, 
Palla, and I behave like a drunken kid. . . . I’ll 

buck up. I’ve got to. I’m not the blithering, balmy, 
moon-eyed, melancholy ass you think me ” 

Her quick laughter rang clear, and his echoed it, 
rather uncertainly. 

“You poor dear,” she said, “you’re nearest my heart 
of anybody. I told you so. It’s only that one thing 
I don’t dare do.” 

He nodded. 

“Can’t you really understand that I’m afraid?” 

“Afraid!” he repeated. “I should think you might 
be, considering your astonishing point of view. I 
should think you’d be properly scared to death!” 

“I am. No girl, afraid, should ever take such a 
chance. Love and Fear cannot exist together. The 
one always slays the other.” 

He looked at her curiously, remembering what 
Estridge had told him about her — how, on that ter- 
rible day in the convent chapel, this girl’s love had 
truly slain the fear within her as she faced the Red 
assassins and offered to lay down her life for her 
friend. Than which, it is said, there is no greater 
love. . . . 

“Of what are you thinking?” she asked, watching his 
expression. 

“Of you — you strange, generous, fearless, wilful 

132 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


girl!” Then he squared his shoulders and shook them 
as though freeing himself of something oppressive. 

“What you may need is a spanking!” he suggested 
coolly. 

“Good heavens, Jim! ” 

“But I’m afraid you’re not likely to get it. And what 
is going to happen to you — and to me — I don’t know 
— I don’t know, Palla.” 

“May I prophesy?” 

“Go to it, Miriam.” 

“Behold, then: I shall never care for any man more 
than I care now for you ; I shall never care more for 
you than I do now. . . . And if you are sweet- 

tempered and sensible, we shall be very happy with 
each other. . . . Even after you marry. . . . 

Unless your wife misunderstands ” 

“My wife!” he repeated derisively. 

“Miss Sharrow, for instance.” r 

He turned a dull red; the girl’s heart missed a beat, 
then hurried a little before it calmed again under her 
cool recognition and instant disdain of the first twinge 
of jealousy she could remember since childhood. 

The absurdity of it, too! After all, it was this 
man’s destiny to marry. And, if it chanced to be that 
giri — 

“You know,” he said in a detached, musing way, “it 
is well for you to remember that I shall never marry 
unless I marry you. . . . Life is long. There are 

other women. ... I may forget you — at inter- 
vals. . . . But I shall never marry except with 

you, Palla.” 

Her smile forced the gravity from her lips and eyes : 

“If you behave like a veiled prophet you’ll end by 
scaring me,” she said. 


133 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


But he merely gathered her into his arms and kissed 
her — laid back her head and looked down into her face 
and kissed her lips, without haste, as though she be- 
longed to him. 

Her head rested quite motionless on his shoulder. 
Perhaps she was still too taken aback to do anything 
about the matter. Her heart had hurried a little — not 
much — stimulated, possibly, by the rather agreeable 
curiosity which invaded her — charmingly expressive, 
now, in her wide brown eyes. 

“So that’s the way of it,” he concluded, still looking 
down at her. “There are other women in the world. 
And life is long. But I marry you or nobody. And 
it’s my opinion that I shall not die unmarried.” 

She smiled defiantly. 

“You don’t seem to think much of my opinions,” she 
said. 

“Are you more friendly to mine?” 

“Certain opinions of yours,” he retorted, “origin- 
ated in the diseased bean of some crazy Russian — never 
in your mind! So of course I hold them in contempt.” 

She saw his face darken, watched it a moment, then 
impulsively drew his head down against hers. 

“I do care for your opinions,” she said, her cheek, 
delicately warm, beside his. “So, even if you can not 
comprehend mine, be generous to them. I’m sincere. I 
try to be honest. If you differ from me, do it kindly, 
not contemptuously. For there is no such thing as 
‘noble contempt!’ There is respectability in anger and 
nobility in tolerance. But none in disdain, for they 
are contradictions.” 

“I tell you,” he said, “I despise and hate this loose 
socialistic philosophy that makes a bonfire of every- 
thing the world believes in !” 

134 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


“Don’t hate other creeds; merely conform to your 
own, Jim. It will keep you very, very busy. And give 
others a chance to live up to their beliefs.” 

He felt the smile on her lips and cheek: 

“ I can’t live up to my belief if I marry you,” she 
said. “So let us care for each other peacefully — ac- 
cepting each other as we are. Life is long, as you say. 

. . And there are other women. . . . And 

ultimately you will marry one of them. But until 
then ” 

He felt her lips very lightly against his — cool young 
lips, still and fragrant and sweet. 

After a moment she asked him to release her; and 
she rose and w r alked across the room to the mirror. 

Still busy with her hair, she turned partly toward 
him: 

“Apropos of nothing,” she said, “a man was exceed- 
ingly impudent to me on the street this evening. A 
Russian, too. I was so annoyed!” 

“What do you mean?” 

“It happened just as I started to ascend the steps. 
. . . There was a man there, loitering. I supposed 

he meant to beg. So I felt for my purse, but he jumped 
back and began to curse me roundly for an aristocrat 
and a social parasite !” 

“What did he say?” 

“I was so amazed — quite stupefied. And all the while 
he was swearing at me in Russian and in English, and 
he warned me to keep away from Mary a and Vanya 
and Ilse and mind my own damned business. And he 
said, also, that if I didn’t there were people in New 
York who knew how to deal with any friend of the 
Russian aristocracy.” 


135 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


She patted a curly strand of hair into place, and 
came toward him in her leisurely, lissome way. 

“Fancy the impertinence of that wretched Red! And 
I understand that both Vanya and Mary a have received 
horribly insulting letters. And Use, also. Isn’t it 
most annoying?” 

She seated herself at the piano and absently began 
the Adagio of the famous sonata. 


CHAPTER X 


T HERE was still, for Palla, much shopping to do. 
The drawing room she decided to leave, for the 
present, caring as she did only for a few genuine 
and beautiful pieces to furnish the pretty little French 
grey room. 

The purchase of these ought to be deferred, but she 
could look about, and she did, wandering into antique 
shops of every class along Fifth and Madison Avenues 
and the inviting cross streets. 

But her chiefest quest was still for pots and pans 
and china ; for napery, bed linen, and hangings ; also 
for her own and more intimate personal attire. 

To her the city was enchanting and not at all as she 
remembered it before she had gone abroad. 

New York, under its canopy of tossing flags and 
ablaze with brilliant posters, swarmed with unfamiliar 
people. Every other pedestrian seemed to be a soldier; 
every other vehicle contained a uniform. 

There were innumerable varieties of military dress in 
the thronged streets; there was the universal note of 
khaki and olive drab, terminating in leather vizored 
barrack cap or jaunty overseas service cap, and in 
spiral puttees, leather ones, or spurred boots. 

Silver wings of aviators glimmered on athletic 
chests ; chevrons, wound stripes, service stripes, an end- 
less variety of insignia. 

Here the grey-green and oxidised metal of the 

137 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


marines predominated; there, the conspicuous sage- 
green and gold of naval aviators. On campaign hats 
were every hue of hat cord; the rich gilt and blue of 
naval officers and the blue and white of their jackies 
were everywhere to be encountered. 

And then everywhere, also, the brighter hue and 
exotic cut of foreign uniforms was apparent — splashes 
of gayer tints amid khaki and sober civilian garb — 
the beautiful garance and horizon-blue of French offi- 
cers ; the familiar “brass hat” of the British ; the grey- 
blue and maroon of Italians. And there were stranger 
uniforms in varieties inexhaustible — the schapska- 
shaped head-gear of Polish officers, the beret of Czecho- 
slovaks. And everywhere, too, the gay and well-known 
red pompon bobbed on the caps of French blue-jackets, 
and British marines stalked in pairs, looking every 
inch the soldier with their swagger sticks and their 
vizorless forage-caps. 

Always, it seemed to Palla, there was military music 
to be heard above the roar of traffic — sometimes the 
drums and bugles of foreign detachments, arrived in 
aid of “drives” and loans of various sorts. 

Ambulances painted grey and bright blue, and 
driven by smartly uniformed young women, were every- 
where. 

And to women’s uniforms there seemed no end, rang- 
ing all the way from the sober blue of the army nurse 
and the pretty white of the Red Cross, to bizarre but 
smart effects carried smartly by well set up girls rep- 
resenting scores of service corps, some invaluable, some 
of doubtful utility. 

Eagle huts, canteens, soldiers’ rest houses, Red 
Cross quarters, clubs, temporary barracks, peppered 
the city. Everywhere the service flags were visible, 
138 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


also, telling their proud stories in five-pointed symbols 
— sometimes tragic, where gold stars glittered. 

Never had New York seemed to contain so many 
people; never had the overflow so congested avenue 
and street, circle and square, and the wretchedly inade- 
quate and dirty street-car and subway service. 

And into the heart of it all went Palla, engulfed in 
the great tides of Fifth Avenue, drifting into quieter 
back-waters to east and west, and sometimes caught 
and tossed about in the glittering maelstrom of Broad- 
way when she ventured into the theatre district. 

Opera, comedy, musical show and cinema interested 
her; restaurant and cabaret she had evaded, so far, 
but what most excited and fascinated her was the peo- 
ple themselves — these eager, restless moving millions 
swarming through the city day and night, always in 
motion under blue skies or falling rain, perpetually in 
quest of what the world eternally offered, eternally 
concealed — that indefinite, glimmering thing called 
“heart’s desire.” 

To discover, to comprehend, to help, to guide their 
myriad aspirations in the interminable and headlong 
Funt for happiness, was, to Palla, the most vital prob- 
lem in the world. 

For her there existed only one solution of this prob- 
lem: the Law of Love. 

And in this world-wide Hunt for Happiness, where 
scrambling millions followed the trail of Heart’s De- 
sire, she saw the mad huntsman, Folly, leading, and 
Black Care, the whipper-in; and, at the bitter end, 
only the bones of the world’s woe; and a Horseman 
seated on his Pale Horse. 

But the problem that still remained was how to 
swerve the headlong hunt to the true trail toward the 
139 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


only goal where the world’s quarry, happiness, lies 
asleep. 

How to make service the Universal Heart’s Desire? 
How to transfigure self-love into Love? 

To preach her faith from the street corners — to cry 
it aloud in the wilderness where no ear heeded — vio- 
lence, aggression, the campaign militant, had never 
appealed to the girl. 

Like her nation, only when cornered did she blaze 
out and strike. But to harangue, threaten, demand 
of the world that it accept the Law of Service and of 
Love, seemed to her a mockery of the faith she had 
embraced, which, unless irrevocably in liaison with free- 
dom, was no faith at all. 

So, for Palla, the solution lay in loyalty to the faith 
she professed ; in living it ; in swaying ignorance by 
example; in overcoming incredulity by service, scepti- 
cism by love. 

Love and Service? Why, all around her among these 
teeming millions were examples — volunteers in khaki, 
their sisters in the garments of mercy ! Why must the 
world stop there? This was the right scent. Why 
should the hunt swerve for the devil’s herring drawn 
across the trail? 

One for all; all for one! She had read it on one of 
the war-posters. Somebody had taken the splendid 
Guardsman’s creed and had made it the slogan for this 
war against darkness. 

And that was her creed — the true faith — the Law of 
Love. Then, was it good only in war? Why not make 
it the nation’s creed? Why not emblazon it on the 
wall of every city on earth? — one for all; all for one; 
Love, Service, Freedom! 

Before such a faith, autocracy and tyranny die. 

140 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


Under such a law every evil withers, every question is 
unravelled. There are no more problems of poverty 
and riches, none of greed and oppression. 

The tyranny of convention, of observance, of taboo, 
of folk-ways, ends. And into the brain of all living 
beings will be born the perfect comprehension of their 
own indestructible divinity. 

1 Part of this she ventured to say to Ilse Westgard 
one day, when they had met for luncheon in a modest 
tea-room on Forty-third Street. 

But Ilse, always inclined toward militancy, did not 
entirely agree with Palla. 

“To embody in one’s daily life the principles of one’s 
living faith is scarcely sufficient,” she said. “Good is a 
force, not an inert condition. So is evil. And we 
should not sit still while evil moves.” 

“Example is not inertia,” protested Palla. 

“Example, alone, is sterile, I think,” said the ex-girl- 
soldier of the Battalion of Death, buttering a crescent. 
She ate it with the delightful appetite of flawless 
health, and poured out more chocolate. 

“For instance, dear,” she went on, “the forces of evil 
— of degeneration, ignorance, envy, ferocity, are gath- 
ering like a tornado in Russia. Virtuous example, 
sucking its thumbs and minding its own business, will 
be torn to fragments when the storm breaks.” 

“The Bolsheviki?” 

“The Reds. The Terrorists, I mean. You know as 
well as I do what they really are — merely looters skulk- 
ing through the smoke of a world in flames — buzzards 
on the carcass of a civilisation dead. But, Palla, they 
do not sit still and suck their thumbs and say, ‘I am a 
^Terrorist. Behold me and be converted.’ No, indeed! 
141 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


They are moving, always in motion, preoccupied by 
their hellish designs.” 

“In Russia, yes,” admitted Palla. 

“Everywhere, dearest. Here, also.” 

“I believe there are scarcely any in America,” in- 
sisted Palla. 

“The country crawls with them,” retorted Ilse. 
“They work like moles, but already if you look about 
you can see the earth stirring above their tunnels. 
They are here, everywhere, active, scheming, plotting, 
whispering treason, stirring discontent, inciting envy, 
teaching treason. 

“They are the Russians — Christians and Jews — who 
have filtered in here to do the nation mischief. They 
are the Germans who blew up factories, set fires, scut- 
tled ships. They are foreigners who came here 
poisoned with envy; who have acquired nothing; whose 
greed and ferocity are whetted and ready for a uni- 
versal conflagration by which they alone could profit. 

“They are the labour leaders who break faith and 
incite to violence ; they are the I. W. W. ; they are the 
Black Hand, the Camorra; they are the penniless who 
would slay and rob; the landless who would kill and 
seize; the ignorant, nursing suspicion; the shiftless, 
brooding crimes to bring them riches quickly. 

“And, Palla, your Law of Love and Service is good. 
But not for these.” 

“What law for them, then?” 

“Education. Maybe with machine guns.” 

Palla shook her head. “Is that the way to educate 
defectives ?” 

“When they come at you en masse , yes !” 

Palla laughed. “Dear,” she said, “there is no 
142 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


nation-wide Terrorist plot. These mental defectives 
are not in mass anywhere in America.” 

“They are in dangerous groups everywhere. And 
every group is devoting its cunning to turning the 
working masses into a vast mob of the Black Hundred ! 
They did it in Russia. They are working for it all 
over the world. You do not believe it?” 

“No, I don’t, Ilse.” 

“Very well. You shall come with me this evening. 
Are you busy?” 

The thought of Jim glimmered in her mind. He 
might feel aggrieved. But he ought to begin to realise 
that he couldn’t be with her every evening. 

“No, I haven’t any plans, Ilse,” she said, “no definite 
engagement, I mean. Will you dine at home with me?” 

“Early, then. Because there is a meeting which you 
and I shall attend. It is an education.” 

“An anarchist meeting?” 

“Yes, Reds. I think we should go — perhaps take 

part ” 

“What?” 

“Why not? I shall not listen to lies and remain 
silent!” said Ilse, laughing. “The Revolution was 
good. But the Bolsheviki are nothing but greedy 
thieves and murderers. You and I know that. If 
anybody teaches people the contrary, I certainly shall 
have something to say.” 

Palla desired to purchase silk for sofa pillows, having 
acquired a chaise-longue for her bed-room. 

So she and Ilse went out into the sunshine and multi- 
coloured crowd; and all the afternoon they shopped 
very blissfully — which meant, also, lingering before 
store windows, drifting into picture-galleries, taking 
143 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


tea at Sherry’s, and finally setting out for home 
through a beflagged avenue jammed with traffic. 

Dusk fell early but the drooping, orange-tinted 
globes which had replaced the white ones on the Fifth 
Avenue lamps were not yet lighted; and there still re- 
mained a touch of sunset in the sky when they left the 
bus. 

At the corner of Palla’s street, there seemed to be 
an unusual congestion, and now, above the noise of 
traffic, they caught the sound of a band; and turned 
at the curb to see, supposing it to be a military music. 

The band was a full one, not military, wearing a 
slatternly sort of uniform but playing well enough as 
they came up through the thickening dusk, marching 
close to the eastern curb of the avenue. 

They were playing The Marseillaise. Four abreast, 
behind them, marched a dingy column of men and 
women, mostly of foreign aspect and squatty build, 
carrying a hag which seemed to be entirely red. 

Palla, perplexed, incredulous, yet almost instantly 
suspecting the truth, stared at the rusty ranks, at the 
knots of red ribbon on every breast. 

Other people were staring, too, as the unexpected 
procession came shuffling along — late shoppers, busi- 
ness men returning home, soldiers — all paused to gaze 
at this sullen vis aged battalion clumping up the ave- 
nue. 

“Surely,” said Palla to Ilse, “these people can’t be 
Reds!” 

“Surely they are !” returned the tall, fair girl calmly. 
Her face had become flushed, and she stepped to the 
edge of the curb, her blue, wrathful eyes darkening 
like sapphires. 

A soldier came up beside her. Others, sailors and 
144 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


soldiers, stopped to look. There was a red flag pass- 
ing. Suddenly Use stepped from the sidewalk, 
wrenched the flag from the burly Jew who carried it, 
and, with the same movement, shattered the staff across 
her knee. 

Men and women in the ranks closed in on her; a 
shrill roar rose from them, but the soldiers and sailors, 
cheering and laughing, broke into the enraged ranks, 
tearing off red rosettes, cuffing and kicking the in- 
furiated Terrorists, seizing every seditious banner, flag, 
emblem and placard in sight. 

Female Reds, shrieking with rage, clawed, kicked and 
bit at soldier, sailor and civilian. A gaunt man, with a 
greasy bunch of hair under a bowler, waved dirty 
hands above the melee and shouted that he had the 
Mayor’s permission to parade. 

Everywhere automobiles were stopping, crowds of 
people hurrying up, policemen running. The electric 
lights snapped alight, revealed a mob struggling there 
in the yellowish glare. 

Ilse had calmly stepped to the sidewalk, the frag- 
ments of flag and staff in her white-gloved hands ; and, 
as she saw the irresponsible soldiers and blue-jackets 
wading lustily into the Reds — saw the lively riot which 
her own action had started — an irresistible desire to 
laugh seized her. 

Clear and gay above the yelling of Bolsheviki and 
the “Yip — yip!” of the soldiers, peeled her infectious 
laughter. But Palla, more gentle, stood with dark eyes 
dilated, fearful of real bloodshed in the furious scene 
raging in the avenue before her. 

A little shrimp of a Terrorist, a huge red rosette 
streaming from his button-hole, suddenly ran at Ilse 
and seized the broken staff and the rags of the red flag. 
145 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


And Palla, alarmed, caught him by the coat-collar 
and dragged him screeching and cursing away from her 
friend, rebuking him in a firm but excited voice. 

Use came over, shouldering her superb figure through 
the crowd ; looked at the human shrimp a moment ; then 
her laughter pealed anew. 

“That’s the man who abused me in Denmark!” she 
said. “Oh, Palla, look at him ! Do you really believe 
you could educate a thing like that!” 

The man had wriggled free, and now he turned a 
flat, whiskered visage on Palla, menaced her with both 
soiled fists, inarticulate in his fury. 

But police were everywhere, now, sweeping this mini- 
ature riot from the avenue, hustling the Reds uptown, 
checking the skylarking soldiery, sending amused or 
indignant citizens about their business. 

A burly policeman said to Use with a grin: “I’ll 
take what’s left of that red flag, Miss;” and the girl 
handed it to him still laughing. 

Soldiers wearing overseas caps cheered her and Palla. 
Everybody on the turbulent sidewalk was now laughing. 

“D’yeh see that blond nab the red flag outer that 
big kike’s fists?” shouted one soldier to his sweating 
bunkie. “Some skirt!” 

“God love the Bolsheviki she grabs by the slack o’ 
the pants!” cried a blue-jacket who had lost his cap. 
A roar followed. 

“Only one flag in this little old town!” yelled a 
citizen nursing a cut cheek with reddened handkerchief. 

“G’wan, now !” grumbled a policeman, trying to look 
severe; “it’s all over; they’s nothing to see. Av ye 
got homes ” 

“Yip! Where do we go from here?” demanded a 
marine. 


146 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


“Home!” repeated the policeman; “ — that’s the 
answer. G’wan, now, peaceable — lave these ladies 
pass ! ” 

Use and Palla, still walled in by a grinning, admiring 
soldiery, took advantage of the opening and fled, fol- 
lowed by cheers as far as Palla’s door. 

“Good heavens, Ilse,” she exclaimed in fresh dismay, 
as she began to realise the rather violent roles they both 
had played, “ — is that your idea of education for the 
masses ?” 

A servant answered the bell and they entered the 
house. And presently, seated on the chaise-longue in 
Palla’s bed-room, Ilse Westgard alternately gazed upon 
her ruined white gloves and leaned against the cane 
back, w r eak with laughter. 

“How funny ! How degrading ! But how funny !” 
she kept repeating. “That large and enraged Jew with 
the red flag ! — the wretched little Christian shrimp you 
carried wriggling away by the collar! Oh, Palla! 
Palla! Never shall I forget the expression on your 
face — like a bored housewife, who, between thumb and 
forefinger, carries a dead mouse by the tail ” 

“He was trying to kick you, my dear,” explained 
Palla, beginning to remove the hairpins from her hair. 

Ilse touched her eyes with her handkerchief. 

“They might have thrown bombs,” she said. “It’s 
all very well to laugh, darling, but sometimes such 
affairs are not funny.” 

Palla, seated at her dresser, shook down a mass of 
thick, bright-brown hair, and picked up her comb. 

“I am wondering,” she said, turning partly toward 
Ilse, “what Jim Shotwell would think of me.” 

“Fighting on the street!” — her laughter rang out 
uncontrolled. And Palla, too, was laughing rather 
147 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


uncertainly, for, as her recollection of the affair became 
more vivid, her doubts concerning the entire procedure 
increased. 

“Of course,” she said, “that red flag was outrageous, 
and you were quite right in destroying it. One could 
hardly button-hole such a procession and try to educate 
it.” 

Ilse said: “One can usually educate a wild animal, 
but never a rabid one. You’ll see, to-night.” 

“Where are we going, dear?” 

“We are going to a place just west of Seventh 
Avenue, called the Red Flag Club.” 

“Is it a club?” 

“No. The Reds hire it several times a week and 
try to fill it with people. There is the menace to this 
city and to the nation, Palla — for these cunning fo- 
menters of disorder deluge the poorer quarters of the 
town with their literature. That’s where they get 
their audiences. And that is where are being born the 
seeds of murder and destruction.” 

Palla, combing out her hair, gazed absently into 
the mirror. 

“Why should not we do the same thing?” she asked. 

“Form a club, rent a room, and talk to people?” 

“Yes; why not?” asked Palla. 

“That is exactly why I wish you to come with me 
to-night — to realise how we should combat these crim- 
inal and insane agents of all that is most terrible in 
Europe. 

“And you are right, Palla ; that is the way to fight 
them. That is the way to neutralise the poison they 
are spreading. That is the way to educate the masses 
to that sane socialism in which we both believe. It can 
be done by education. It can be done by matching 
148 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


them with club for club, meeting for meeting, speech 
for speech. And when, in some local instances, it can 
not be done that way, then, if there be disorder, force !” 

“It can be done entirely by education/’ said Palla. 
“But remember! — Marx gave the forces of disorder 
their slogan — ‘Unite !’ Only a rigid organisation of 
sane civilisation can meet that menace.” 

“You are very right, darling, and a club to combat 
the Bolsheviki already exists. Yanya and Marya 
already have joined; there are workmen and working 
women, college professors and college graduates among 
its members. Some, no doubt, will be among the audi- 
ence at the Red Flag Club to-night. 

“I shall join this club. I think you, also, will wish 
to enroll. It is called only ‘Number One.’ Other 
clubs are to be organised and numbered. 

“And now you see that, in America, the fight against 
organised rascality and exploited insanity has really 
begun.” 

Palla, her hair under discipline once more, donned 
a fresh but severe black gown. Use unpinned her 
hat, made a vigorous toilet, then lighted a cigarette 
and sauntered into the living room where the telephone 
was ringing persistently. 

“Please answer,” said Palla, fastening her gown 
before the pier glass. 

Presently Use called her: “It’s Mr. Shotwell, dear.” 

Palla came into the room and picked up the receiver : 

“Yes? Oh, good evening, Jim! Yes. • . . Yes, 

I am going out with Use. . . . Why, no, I had no 

engagement with you, Jim! I’m sorry, but I didn’t 
understand — No; I had no idea that you expected to 
see me — wait a moment, please!” — she put one hand 
over the transmitter, turned to Use with flushed cheeks 
149 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


and a shyly interrogative smile: “Shall I ask him to 
dine with us and go with us?” 

“If you choose,” called Ilse, faintly amused. 

Then Palla called him: “ — Jim! Come to dinner at 
once. And wear your business clothes. 

What? . . . Yes, your every day clothes. . . . 

What? . . . Why, because I ask you, Jim. Isn’t 

that a reason? . . . Thank you. . . . Yes, 

come immediately. • . . Good-bye, de ” 

She coloured crimson, hung up the receiver, and 
picked up the evening paper, not daring to glance at 
Ilse. 


CHAPTER XI 


W HEN Shotwell arrived, dinner had already 
been announced, and Palla and Ilse Westgard 
were in the unfurnished drawing-room, the 
former on a step-ladder, the latter holding that col- 
lapsible machine with one hand and Palla’s ankle with 
the other. 

Palla waved a tape-measure in airy salute: “I’m 
trying to find out how many yards it takes for my 
curtains,” she explained. But she climbed down and 
gave him her hand; and they went immediately into 
the dining-room. 

“What’s all this nonsense about the Red Flag Club ?” 
he inquired, when they were seated. “Do you and Ilse 
really propose going to that dirty anarchist joint?” 

“How do you know it’s dirty?” demanded Palla, 
“ — or do you mean it’s only morally dingy?” 

Both she and Ilse appeared to be in unusually 
lively spirits, and they poked fun at him when he ob- 
jected to their attending the meeting in question. 

“Very well,” he said, “but there may be a free fight. 
There was a row on Fifth Avenue this evening, where 
some of those rats were parading with red flags.” 

Palla laughed and cast a demure glance at Ilse. 
“What is there to laugh at?” demanded Jim. “There 
was a small riot on Fifth Avenue! I met several men 
at the club who witnessed it.” 

The sea-blue eyes of Ilse were full of mischief. He 
was aware of Palla’s subtle exhilaration, too. 

151 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


“Why hunt for a free fight?” he asked. 

“Why avoid one if it’s free?” retorted Ilse, gaily. 

They all laughed. 

“Is that your idea of liberty?” he asked Palla. 

“What is all human progress but a free fight?” she 
retorted. “Of course,” she added, “Ilse means an 
intellectual battle. If they misbehave otherwise, I shall 
flee.” 

“I don’t see why you want to go to hear a lot of 
Reds talk bosh,” he remarked. “It isn’t like you, 
Palla.” 

“It is like me. You see you don’t really know me, 
Jim,” she added with smiling malice. 

“The main thing,” said Ilse, “is for one to be one’s 
self. Palla and I are social revolutionists. Revo- 
lutionists revolt. A revolt is a row. There can be 
no row unless people fight.” 

He smiled at their irresponsible gaiety, a little puz- 
zled by it and a little uneasy. 

“All right,” he said, as coffee was served; “but it’s 
just as well that I’m going with you.” 

The ex-girl-soldier gave him an amused glance, 
lighted a cigarette, glanced at her wrist-watch, then 
rose lightly to her graceful, athletic height, saying 
that they ought to start. 

So they went away to pin on their hats, and Jim 
called a taxi. 

# 

The hall was well filled when they arrived. There 
was a rostrum, on which two wooden benches faced a 
table and a chair in the centre. On the table stood 
a pitcher of drinking water, a soiled glass, and a jug 
full of red carnations. 

A dozen men and women occupied the two benches. 

152 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


At the table a man sat writing. He held a lighted 
cigar in one hand ; a red silk handkerchief trailed from 
his coat pocket. 

As Ilse and Palla seated themselves on an empty 
bench and Shotwell found a place beside them, some- 
body on the next bench beyond leaned over and bade 
them good evening in a low voice. 

“Mr. Brisson !” exclaimed Palla, giving him her hand 
in unfeigned pleasure. 

Brisson shook hands, also, with Ilse, cordially, and 
then was introduced to Jim. 

“What are you doing here?” he inquired humor- 
ously of Palla. “And, by the way,” — dropping his 
voice — “these Reds don’t exactly love me, so don’t 
use my name.” 

Palla nodded and whispered to Jim : “Pie secured all 
that damning evidence at the Smolny for our Gov- 
ernment.” 

Brisson and Ilse were engaged in low-voiced conver- 
sation: Palla ventured to look about her. 

The character of the gathering was foreign. There 
were few American features among the faces, but those 
few were immeasurably superior in type — here and 
there the intellectual, spectacled visage of some educated 
visionary, lured into the red tide and left there drifting ; 
— here and there some pale girl, carelessly dressed, 
seated with folded hands, and intense gaze fixed on 
space. 

But the majority of these people, men and women, 
were foreign in aspect — rounds bushy heads with no 
backs to them were everywhere ; muddy skins, unhealthy 
skins, loose mouths, shifty eyes! — everywhere around 
her Palla saw the stigma of degeneracy. 

153 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


She said in a low voice to Jim: “These poor things 
need to be properly housed and fed before they’re 
taught. Education doesn’t interest empty stomachs. 
And when they’re given only poison to stop the pangs 
— what does civilisation expect?” 

He said: “They’re a lot of bums. The only edu- 
cation they require is with a night-stick.” 

“That’s cruel, Jim.” 

“It’s law.” 

* “One of your laws which does not appeal to me,” 
she remarked, turning to Brisson, who was leaning 
over to speak to her. 

“There are half a dozen plain-clothes men in the 
audience,” he said. “There are Government detectives 
here, too. I rather expect they’ll stop the proceedings 
before the programme calls for it.” 

Jim turned to look back. A file of policemen en- 
tered and carelessly took up posts in the rear of the 
hall. Hundreds of flat-backed heads turned, too ; hun- 
dreds of faces darkened; a low muttering arose from 
the benches. 

Then the man at the table on the rostrum got up 
abruptly, and pulled out his red handkerchief as though 
to wipe his face. 

At the sudden flourish of the red fabric, a burst of 
applause came from the benches. Orator and audience 
were en rapport ; the former continued to wave the 
handkerchief, under pretence of swabbing his features, 
but the intention was so evident and the applause so en- 
lightening that a police officer came part way down 
the aisle and held up a gilded sleeve. 

“Hey!” he called in a bored voice, “Cut that out! 
See !” 

“That man on the platform is Max Sondheim,” 

154 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


whispered Brisson. “He’ll skate on thin ice before he’s 
through.” 

Sondheim had already begun to speak, ignoring the 
interruption from the police : 

“The Mayor has got cold feet,” he said with a sneer. 
“He gave us a permit to parade, but when the soldiers 
attacked us his police clubbed us. That’s the kind of 
government we got.” 

“Shame !” cried a white-faced girl in the audience. 

“Shame?” repeated Sondheim ironically. “What’s 
shame to a cop? They got theirs all the same ” 

“That’s enough !” shouted the police captain sharply. 
“Any more of that and I’ll run you in!” 

Sondheim’s red-rimmed eyes measured the officer in 
silence for a moment. 

“I have the privilege,” he said to his audience, “of 
introducing to you our comrade, Professor Le Vey.” 

“Le Vey,” whispered Brisson in Palla’s ear. He’s 
a crack-brained chemist, and they ought to nab him.” 

The professor rose from one of the benches on the 
rostrum and came forward — a tail, black-bearded man, 
deathly pale, whose protruding, bluish eyes seemed 
almost stupid in their fixity. 

“Words are by-products,” he said, “and of minor 
importance. Deeds educate. T. N. T., also, is a by- 
product, and of no use in conversation unless employed 
as an argument — ” A roar of applause drowned his 
voice: he gazed at the audience out of his stupid pop- 
eyes. 

“Tyranny has kicked you into the gutter,” he went 
on. “Capital makes laws to keep you there and hires 
police and soldiers to enforce those laws. This is 
called civilisation. Is there anything for you to do 
except to pick yourselves out of the gutter and destroy 
155 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


what kicked you into it and what keeps you there?” 

“No!” roared the audience. 

“Only a clean sweep will do it,” said Le Vey. “If 
you have a single germ of plague in the world, it will 
multiply. If you leave a single trace of what is called 
civilisation in the world, it will hatch out more tyrants, 
more capitalists, more laws. So there is only one rem- 
edy. Destruction. Total annihilation. Nothing less 
can purify this rotten hell they call the world !” 

Amid storms of applause he unrolled a manuscript 
and read without emphasis: 

“Therefore, the Workers of the World, in council 
assembled, hereby proclaim at midnight to-night, 
throughout the entire world: 

“1. That all debts, public and private, are can- 
celled. 

“2. That all leases, contracts, indentures and simi- 
lar instruments, products of capitalism, are null and 
void. 

“3. All statutes, ordinances and other enactments 
of capitalist government are repealed. 

“4. All public offices are declared vacant. 

“5. The military and naval organisations will im- 
mediately dissolve and reorganise themselves upon a 
democratic basis for speedy mobilisation. 

“6. All working classes and political prisoners will 
be immediately freed and all indictments quashed. 

“7. All vacant and unused land shall immediately 
revert to the people and remain common property un- 
til suitable regulations for its disposition can be made. 

“8. All telephones, telegraphs, cables, railroads, 
steamship lines and other means of communication and 
transportation shall be immediately taken over by the 
156 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


workers and treated henceforth as the property of the 
people. 

“9. As speedily as possible the workers in the vari- 
ous industries will proceed to take over these industries 
and organise them in the spirit of the new epoch now 
beginning. 

“10. The flag of the new society shall be plain red, 
marking our unity and brotherhood with similar repub- 
lics in Russia, Germany, Austria and elsewhere ” 

“That’ll be about all from you, Professor,” inter- 
rupted the police captain, strolling down to the plat- 
form. “Come on, now. Kiss your friends good-night !” 

A sullen roar rose from the audience; Le Yey lifted 
one hand: 

“I told you how to argue,” he said in his emotionless 
voice. “Anybody can talk with their mouths.” And 
he turned on his heel and went back to his seat on the 
bench. 

Sondheim stood up: 

“Comrade Bromberg!” he shouted. 

A small, shabby man arose from a bench and sham- 
bled forward. His hair grew so low that it left him 
practically no forehead. Whiskers blotted out the re- 
mainder of his features except two small and very 
bright eyes that snapped and sparkled, imbedded in 
the hairy ensemble. 

“Comrades,” he growled, “it has come to a moment 
when the only law worth obeying is the law of 
force I ” 

“You bet!” remarked the police captain, genially, 
and, turning his back, he walked away up the aisle 
toward the rear of the hall, while all around him from 
the audience came a savage muttering. 

Bromberg’s growling voice grew harsher and deeper 
157 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


as he resumed: “I tell you that there is only one law 
left for proletariat and tyrant alike! It is the law 
of force !” 

As the audience applauded fiercely, a man near them 
stood up and shouted for a hearing. 

“Comrade Bromberg is right!” he cried, waving his 
arms excitedly. “There is only one real law in the 
world! The fit survive! The unfit die! The strong 
take what they desire ! The weak perish. That is the 
law of life! That is the ” 

An amazing interruption checked him — a clear, crys- 
talline peal of laughter; and the astounded audience 
saw a tall, fresh, yellow-haired girl standing up mid- 
way down the hall. It was Ilse Westgard, unable to 
endure such nonsense, and quite regardless of Brisson’s 
detaining hand and Shotwell’s startled remonstrance. 

“What that man says is absurd!” she cried, her 
fresh young voice still gay with laughter. “He looks 
like a Prussian, and if he is he ought to know where 
the law of force has landed his nation.” 

In the ominous silence around her, Use turned and 
gaily surveyed the audience. 

“The law of force is the law of robbers,” she said. 
“That is why this war has been fought — to educate 
robbers. And if there remain any robbers they’ll have 
to be educated. Don’t let anybody tell you that the 
law of force is the law of life! ” 

“Who are you?” interrupted Bromberg hoarsely. 

“An ex-soldier of the Death Battalion, comrade,” 
said Ilse cheerfully. “I used a rifle in behalf of the 
law of education. Sometimes bayonets educate, some- 
times machine guns. But the sensible way is to have 
a meeting, and everybody drink tea and smoke cigar- 
ettes and discuss their troubles without reserve, and 
158 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


then take a vote as to what is best for everybody con- 
cerned.” 

And she seated herself with a smile just as the inevit- 
able uproar began. 

All around her now men and women were shouting 
at her; inflamed faces ringed her; gesticulating fists 
waved in the air. 

“What are you — a spy for Kerensky?” yelled a man 
in Russian. 

“The bourgeoisie has its agents here !” bawled a red- 
haired Jew. “I offer a solemn protest ” 

“Agent provocateur!” cried many voices. “Pay no 
attention to her ! Go on with the debate !” 

An I. W. W. — a thin, mean-faced American — half 
arose and pointed an unwashed finger at Use. 

“A Government spy,” he said distinctly. “Keep your 
eye on her, comrades. There seems to be a bunch of 
them there ” 

“Sit down and shut up!” said Shotwell, sharply. 
“Do you want to start a riot?” 

“You bet I’ll start something!” retorted the man, 
showing his teeth like a rat. “What the hell did you 
come here for ” 

“Silence !” bawled Bromberg, hoarsely, from the plat- 
form. “That woman is recognised and known. Pay no 
attention to her, but listen to me. I tell you that 
your law is the law of hatred! ” 

Palla attempted to rise. Jim tried to restrain her: 
she pushed his arm aside, but he managed to retain 
his grasp on her arm. 

“Are you crazy?” he whispered. 

“That man lies !” she said excitedly. “Don’t you hear 
him preaching hatred?” 

“Well, it’s not your business ” 

159 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


“It is! That man is lying to these ignorant people! 
He’s telling them a vile untruth! Let me go, Jim ” 

“Better keep cool,” whispered Brisson, leaning over. 
“We’re all in dutch already.” 

Palla said to him excitedly : “I’m afraid to stand up 
and speak, but I’m going to! I’d be a coward to sit 
here and let that man deceive these poor people ” 

“Listen to Bromberg!” motioned Ilse, her blue eyes 
frosty and her cheeks deeply flushed. 

The orator had come down into the aisle. Every 
venomous word he was uttering now he directed straight 
at the quartette. 

“Russia is showing us the way,” he said in his growl- 
ing voice. “Russia makes no distinctions but takes 
them all by the throat and wrings their necks — aristo- 
crats, bourgeoisie, cadets, officers, land owners, in- 
tellectuals — all the vermin, all the parasites ! And that 
is the law, I tell you! The unfit perish! The strong 
inherit the earth ! ” 

Palla sprang to her feet: “Liar!” she said hotly. 
“Did not Christ Himself tell us that the meek shall 
inherit the earth!” 

“Christ?” thundered Bromberg. “Have you come 
here to insult us with legends and fairy-tales about a 
god?” 

“Who mentioned God?” retorted Palla in a clear 
voice. “Unless we ourselves are gods there is none! 
But Christ did live! And He was as much a god as 
we are. And no more. But He was wiser ! And what 
He told us is the truth! And I shall not sit silent 
while any man or woman teaches robbery and murder. 
That’s what you mean when you say that the law of 
the stronger is the only law! If it is, then the poor 

and ignorant are where they belong ” 

160 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


“They won’t be when they learn the law of life l 5 * 
roared Bromberg. 

“There is only one law of life !” cried Palla, turning' 
to look around her at the agitated audience. “The 
only law in the world worth obedience is the Law of 
Love and of Service! No other laws amount to any- 
thing. Under that law every problem you agitate here 
is already solved. There is no injustice that cannot 
be righted under it ! There is no aspiration that cannot 
be realised !” 

She turned on Bromberg, her hazel eyes very bright, 
her face surging with colour. 

“You came here to pervert the exhortation of Karl 
Marx, and unite under the banner of envy and greed 
every unhappy heart! 

“Very well. Others also can unite to combat you. 
A league of evil is not the only league that can be 
formed under this roof. Nor are the soldiers and police 
the only or the better weapons to use against you. 
What you agitators and mischief makers are really 
afraid of is that somebody may really educate your 
audiences. And that’s exactly what such people as I 
intend to do!” 

A score or more of people had crowded around her 
while she was speaking. Shotwell and Brisson, too, 
had risen and stepped to her side. And the entire audi- 
ence was on its feet, craning hundreds of necks and 
striving to hear and see. 

Somewhere in the crowd a shrill American voice 
cried: “Throw them guys out! They got Wall Street 
cash in their pockets!” 

Sondheim levelled a finger at Brisson: 

“Look out for that man!” he said. “He published 
those lies about Lenine and Trotsky, and he’s here 
161 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


from Washington to lie about us in the newspapers!” 

The I. W. W. lurched out of his seat and shoved 
against Shotwell. 

“Get the hell out o’ here,” he snarled; “ — go on! 
Beat it! And take your ladv-friends, too.” 

Brisson said: “No use talking to them. You’d better 
take the ladies out while the going is good.” 

But as they moved there was an angry murmur: 
the I. W. W. gave Palla a violent shove that sent her 
reeling, and Shotwell knocked him unconscious across 
a bench. 

Instantly the hall was in an uproar: there was a 
savage rush for Brisson, but he stopped it with levelled 
automatic. 

“Get the ladies out!” he said coolly to Shotwell, 
forcing a path forward at his pistol’s point. 

Plain clothes men were active, too, pushing the ex- 
cited Bolsheviki this way and that and clearing a lane 
for Palla and Ilse. 

Then, as they reached the rear of the hall, there 
came a wild howl from the audience, and Shotwell, look- 
ing back, saw Sondheim unfurl a big red flag. 

Instantly the police started for the rostrum. The 
din became deafening as he threw one arm around 
Palla and forced her out into the street, where Ilse and 
Brisson immediately joined them. 

Then, as they looked around for a taxi, a little 
shrimp of a man came out on the steps of the hall and 
spat on the sidewalk and cursed them in Russian. 

And, as Palla, recognising him, turned around, he 
shook his fists at her and at Ilse, promising that they 
should be attended to when the proper moment ar- 
rived. 

Then he spat again, laughed a rather ghastly and 

162 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


distorted laugh, and backed into the doorway behind 
him. 

They walked east — there being no taxi in sight. 
Use and Brisson led ; Palla followed beside Jim. 

“Well,” said the latter, his voice not yet under com- 
plete control, “don’t you think you’d better keep away 
from such places in the future?” 

She was still very much excited: “It’s abominable,” 
she exclaimed, “that this country should permit such 
lies to be spread among the people and do nothing to 
counteract this campaign of falsehood ! What is going 
to happen, Jim, unless educated people combine to 
educate the ignorant?” 

“How?” he asked contemptuously. 

“By example, first of all. By the purity and general 
decency of their own lives. I tell you, Jim, that the 
unscrupulous greed of the educated is as dangerous 
and vile as the murderous envy of the Bolsheviki. 
We’ve got to reform ourselves before we can educate 
others. And unless we begin by conforming to the Law 
of Love and Service, some day the Law of Hate and 
Violence will cut our throats for us.” 

“Palla,” he said, “I never dreamed that you’d do 
such a thing as you did to-night.” 

“I was afraid,” she said with a nervous tightening 
of her arm under his, “but I was still more afraid of 
being a coward.” 

“You didn’t have to answer that crazy anarchist!” 

“Somebody had to. He lied to those poor creatures. 
I — I couldn’t stand it! — ” Her voice broke a little. 
“And if there is truly a god in me, as I believe, then 
I should show Christ’s courage . . . lacking His 

wisdom,” she added so low that he scarcely heard hei. 

163 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


Use, walking ahead with Brisson, looked back over 
her shoulder at Palla laughing. 

“Didn’t I tell you that there are some creatures you 
can’t educate? What do you think of your object 
lesson, darling?” 


CHAPTER XII 


N a foggy afternoon, toward midwinter, John 



Estridge strolled into the new Overseas Club, 


which, still being in process of incubation, occu- 


pied temporary quarters on Madison Avenue. 

Officers fresh from abroad and still in uniform pre- 
dominated; tunics were gay with service and wound 
chevrons, citation cords, stars, crosses, strips of striped 
ribbon. 

There was every sort of headgear to be seen there, 
too, from the jaunty overseas bonnet de police , piped 
in various colours, to the corded campaign hat and 
leather-visored barrack-cap. 

Few cavalry officers were in evidence, but there were 
plenty of spurs glittering everywhere — to keep their 
owners’ heels from slipping off the desks, as the pleas- 
antry of the moment had it. 

Estridge went directly to a telephone booth, and 
presently got his connection. 

“It’s John Estridge, as usual,” he said in a banter- 
ing tone. “How are you, Use?” 

“John! I’m so glad you called me! Thank you 
so much for the roses ! They’re exquisite ! — match- 


less ! ” 

“Not at all!” 

“What?” 

“If you think they’re matchless, just hold one up 


165 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


beside your cheek and take a slant at your mirror.” 

“I thought you were not going to say such things 
to me!” 

“I thought I wasn’t.” 

“Are you alone?” She laughed happily. “Where 
are you, Jack?” 

“At the Overseas Club. I stopped on my way from 
the hospital.” 

“Y— es.” 

A considerable pause, and then Ilse laughed again — 
— a confused, happy laugh. 

“Did you think you’d — come over?” she inquired. 

“Shall I?” 

“What do you think about it, Jack?” 

“I suppose,” he said in a humourous voice, “you’re 
afraid of that tendency which you say I’m beginning 
to exhibit.” 

“The tendency to drift?” 

“Yes; — toward those perilous rocks you warned me 
of.” 

“They are perilous!” she insisted. 

“You ought to know,” he rejoined; “you’re sitting 
on top of ’em like a baity Lorelei!” 

“If that’s your opinion, hadn’t you better steer for 
the open sea, John?” 

“Certainty I’d better. But you look so sweet up 
there, with your classical golden hair, that I think 
I’ll risk the rocks.” 

“Please don’t! There’s a deadly whirlpool under 
them. I’m looking down at it now.” 

“What do you see at the bottom, Ilse? Human 
bones ?” 

“I can’t see the bottom. It’s all surface, like a 
shining mirror.” 


166 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


“I’ll come over and take a look at it with you.” 

“I think you’ll only see our own faces reflected. 
. . . I think you’d better not come.” 

“I’ll be there in about half an hour,” he said gaily. 

He sauntered out and on into the body of the club, 
exchanging with friends a few words here, a smiling 
handclasp there; and presently he seated himself near 
\ window. 

For a while he rested his chin on his clenched hand, 
staring into space, until a waiter arrived with his 
order. 

He signed the check, drained his glass, and leaned 
forward again with both elbows on his knees, twirling 
his silver-headed stick between nervous hands. 

“After all,” he said under his breath, “it’s* too late, 
now. . . . I’m going to see this thing through.” 

As he rose to go he caught sight of Jim Shotwell, 
seated alone by another window and attempting to read 
an evening paper by the foggy light from outside. He 
walked over to him, fastening his overcoat on the way. 
Jim laid aside his paper and gave him a dull glance. 

“How are things with you?” inquired Estridge, care- 
lessly. 

“All right. Are you walking up town?” 

“No.” 

Jim’s sombre eyes rested on the discarded paper, 
but he did not pick it up. “It’s rotten weather,” he 
said listlessly. 

“Have you seen Palla lately?” inquired Estridge, 
looking down at him with a certain curiosity. 

“No, not lately.” 

“She’s a very busy girl, I hear.” 

167 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


“So I hear.” 

Estridge seated himself on the arm of a leather chair 
and began to pull on his gloves. He said : 

“I understand Palla is doing Red Cross and canteen 
work, besides organising her celebrated club; — what 
is it she calls it? — Combat Club No. 1?” 

“I believe so.” 

“And you haven’t seen her lately?” 

Shotwell glanced at the fog and shrugged his shoul- 
ders: “She’s rather busy — as you say. No, I haven’t 
seen her. Besides, I’m rather out of my element amon^ 
the people one runs into at her house. So I simplr 
don’t go any more.” 

“Palla’s parties are always amusing,” ventured 
Estridge. 

“Very,” said the other, “but her guests keep you 
guessing.” 

Estridge smiled: “Because they don’t conform to 
the established scheme of things?” 

“Perhaps. The scheme of things, as it is, suits me.” 

“But it’s interesting to hear other people’s views.” 

“I’m fed up on queer views — and on queer people,” 
said Jim, with sudden and irritable emphasis. “Why, 
hang it all, Jack, when a fellow goes out among ap- 
parently well bred, decent people he takes it for granted 
that ordinary, matter of course social conventions pre- 
vail. But nobody can guess what notions are seething 
in the bean of any girl you talk to at Palla’s house !” 

Estridge laughed: “What do you care, Jim?” 

“Well, I wouldn’t care if they all didn’t seem so 
exactly like one’s own sort. Why, to look at them, 
talk to them, you’d never suppose them queer! The 
young girl you take in to dinner usually looks as 
though butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. And the 
168 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


chances are that she’s all for socialism, self-determin- 
ation, trial marriages and free love ! 

“Hell’s bells ! I’m no prude. I like to overstep con- 
ventions, too. But this wholesale wrecking of the 
social structure would be ruinous for a girl like Palla.” 

“But Palla doesn’t believe in free love.” 

“She hears it talked about by cracked illuminati.” 

“Rain on a duck’s back, Jim!” 

“Rain drowns young ducks.” 

“You mean all this spouting will end in a deluge?” 

“I do. And then look for dead ducks.” 

“You’re not very respectful toward modernism,” re- 
marked Estridge, smiling. 

Then Jim broke loose: 

“Modernism? You yourself said that all these crazy 
social notions — crazy notions in art, literature, music 
— arise from some sort of physical degeneration, or from 
the perversion or checking of normal physical func- 
tions.” 

“Usually they do ” 

“Well,” continued Shotwell, “it’s mostly due to per- 
version, in my opinion. Women have had too much 
of a hell of a run for their money during this war. 
They’ve broken down all the fences and they’re loose 
and running all over the world. 

“If they’d only kept their fool heads ! But no. 
Every germ in the wind lodged in their silly brains! 
Biff. They want sex equality and a pair of riding 
breeches! Bang! They kick over the cradle and 
wreck the pantry. 

“Wifehood? Played out! Motherhood? In the dis- 
cards! Domestic partnership? — each sex to its own 
sphere? Ha-ha! That was all very well yesterday. 
But woman as a human incubator and brooder is an 
169 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


obsolete machine. Why the devil should free and 
untramelled womanhood hatch out young? 

“If they choose to, casually, all right. But it’s 
purely a matter for self-determination. If a girl cares 
to take off her Sam Brown belt and her puttees long 
enough to nurse a baby, it’s a matter that concerns 
her, not humanity at large. Because the social revo- 
lution has settled all such details as personal indepen- 
dence and the same standard for both sexes. So, 
a has Madame Grundy! A la lanterne with the old 
regime! No — hang it all, I’m through!” 

“Don’t you like Palla any more?” inquired Estridge, 
still laughing. 

Jim gave him a singular look: “Yes. . . . Do 

you like Ilse Westgard?” 

Estridge said coolly: “I am accepting her as she is. 
I like her that much.” 

“Oh. Is that very much?” sneered the other. 

“Enough to marry her if she’d have me,” replied 
Estridge pleasantly. 

“And she won’t do that, I suppose?” 

“Not so far.” 

Jim eyed him sullenly: “Well, I don’t accept Palla 
as she is — or thinks she is.” 

“She’s sincere.” 

“I understand that. But no girl can get away with 
such notions. Where is it all going to land her? 
What will she be?” 

Estridge quoted: “‘It hath not yet appeared what 
we shall be.’ ” 

Shotwell rose impatiently, and picked up his over- 
coat : “All I know is that when two healthy people care 
for each other it’s their business — their business , I re- 
170 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


peat — to get together legally and do the decent thing 
by the human race.” 

“Breed?” 

“Certainly! Breed legally the finest, healthiest, best 
of specimens ; — and as many as they can feed and 
clothe! For if they don’t — if we don’t — I mean our 
own sort — the land will be crawling with the robust 
get of all these millions of foreigners, who already 
have nearly submerged us in America ; and whose spawm 
will, one day, smother us to death. 

“Hang it all, aren’t they breeding like vermin now? 
All yellow dogs do — all the unfit produce big litters. 
That’s the only thing they ever do — accumulate 
progeny. 

“And what are we doing? — our sort, I mean? I’ll 
tell you ! Our sisters are having such a good time that 
they won’t marry, if they can avoid it, until they’re 
too mature to get the best results in children. Our 
wives, if they condescend to have any offspring at all, 
limit the output to one. Because more than one might 
damage their beauty. Hell! If the educated classes 
are going to practise race suicide and the Bolsheviki 
are going to breed like lice, you can figure out the 
answer for yourself.” 

They walked to the foggy street together. Shotwell 
said bitterly: 

“I do care for Palla. I like Use. All the women 
one encounters at Palla’s parties are gay, accomplished, 
clever, piquant. The men also are more or less amus- 
ing. The conversation is never dull. Everybody seems 
to be well bred, sincere, friendly and agreeable. But 
there’s something lacking. One feels it even before one 
is enlightened concerning the ultra-modernism of these 
admittedly interesting people. And I’ll tell you what 
171 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


it is. Actually, deep in their souls, they don’t believe 
in themselves. 

“Take Palla. She says there is no God — no divinity 
except in herself. And I tell you she may think she 
believes it, but she doesn’t. 

“And her school-girl creed — Love and Service! Fine. 
Only there’s a prior law — self-preservation; and an- 
other — race preservation ! By God, how are you going 
to love and serve if girls stop having babies? 

“And as for this silly condemnation of the marriage 
ceremony, merely because some sanctified Uncle Foozle 
once inserted the word ‘obey’ in it — just because, under 
the marriage laws, tyranny and cruelty have been prac- 
tised — what callow rot! 

“Laws can be changed; divorce made simple and 
non-scandalous as it should be; all rights safeguarded 
for the woman; and still have something legal and 
recognised by one of those necessary conventions which 
make civilisation possible. 

“But this irresponsible idea of procedure through 
mere inclination — this sauntering through life under 
no law to safeguard and govern, except the law of 
personal preference — that’s anarchy ! That code spells 
demoralisation, degeneracy and disaster! . . . And 

the whole damned thing to begin again — a slow devel- 
opment of the human race, once more, out of the chaos 
of utter barbarism.” 

Estridge, standing there on the sidewalk in the fog, 
smiled : 

“You’re very eloquent, Jim. Why don’t you say 
all this to Palla?” 

“I did. I told her, too, that the root of the whole 
thing was selfishness. And it is. It’s a refusal to play 
the game according to rule. There are only two sexes 

ra 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


and one of ’em is fashioned to bear young, and the other 
is fashioned to hustle for mother and kid. You can’t 
alter that, whether it’s fair or not. It’s the game as 
we found it. The rules were already provided for 
playing it. The legal father and mother are supposed 
to look out for their own legal progeny. And any 
alteration of this rule, with a view to irresponsible 
mating and turning the offspring over to the com- 
munity to take care of, would create an un-human race, 
unconscious of the highest form of love — the love for 
parents. 

“A fine lot we’d be as an incubated race !” 

Estridge laughed: “I’ve got to go,” he said. “And, 
if you care for Palla as you say you do, you oughtn’t 
to leave her entirely alone with her circle of modernist 
friends. Stick around ! It may make you mad, but if 
she likes you, at least she won’t commit an indiscretion 
with anybody else.” 

“I wish I could find my own sort as amusing,” said 
Jim, naively. “I’ve been going about recently — dances, 
dinners, theatres — but I can’t seem to keep my mind 
off Palla.” 

Estridge said: “If you’d give your sense of humour 
half a chance you’d be all right. You take yourself 
too solemnly. You let Palla scare you. That’s not 
the way. The thing to do is to have a jolly time with 
her, with them all. Accept her as she thinks she is. 
There’s no damage done yet. Time enough to throw 
fits if she takes the bit and bolts ” 

He extended his hand, cordially but impatiently: 

“You remember I once said that girl ought to be 
married and have children? If you do the marrying 
part she’s likely to do the rest very handsomely. And 
it will be the making of her.” 

173 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


Jim held on to his hand: 

“Tell me what to do, Jack. She isn’t in love with me. 
And she wouldn’t submit to a legal ceremony if she 
were. You invoke my sense of humour. I’m willing 
to give it an airing, only I can’t see anything funny 
in this business.” 

“It is funny! Palla’s funny, but doesn’t know it. 
You’re funny! They’re all funny — unintentionally. 
Put their motives are tragically immaculate. So stick 
around and have a good time with Palla until there’s 
really something to scare you.” 

“And then?” 

“How the devil do I know? It’s up to you, of 
course, what you do about it.” 

He laughed and strode away through the fog. 

It had seemed to Jim a long time since he had. seen 
Palla. It wasn’t very long. And in all that intermin- 
able time he had not once called her up on the telephone 
— had not even written her a single line. Nor had she 
written to him. 

He had gone about his social business in his own 
circle, much to his mother’s content. He had seen 
quite a good deal of Elorn Sharrow; was comfortably 
back on the old, agreeable footing; tried desperately 
to enjoy it; pretended that he did. 

But the days were long in the office; the evenings 
longer, wherever he happened to be; and the nights, 
alas ! were becoming interminable, now, because he slept 
badly, and the grey winter daylight found him unre- 
freshed. 

Which, recently, had given him a slightly battered 
appearance, commented on jestingly by young rakes 

m 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


and old sports at the Patroon’s Club, and also ob- 
served by his mother with gentle concern. 

“Don’t overdo it, Jim,” she cautioned him, meaning 
dances that ended with breakfasts and that sort of 
thing. But her real concern was vaguer than that — 
deeper, perhaps. And sometimes she remembered the 
girl in black. 

Lately, however, that anxiety had been almost en- 
tirely allayed. And her comparative peace of mind 
had come about in an unexpected manner. 

For, one morning, entering the local Red Cross 
quarters, where for several hours she was accustomed 
to sew, she encountered Mrs. Speedwell and her lively 
daughter, Connie — her gossiping informants concern- 
ing her son’s appearance at Delmonico’s with the mys- 
terious girl in black. 

“Well, what do you suppose, Helen?” said Mrs. 
Speedwell, mischievously. “Jim’s pretty mystery in 
black is here!” 

“Here?” repeated Mrs. Shotwell, flushing and looking 
around her at the rows of prophylactic ladies, all sew- 
ing madly side by side. 

“Yes, and she’s prettier even than I thought her 
in Delmonico’s,” remarked Connie. “Her name is Palla 
Dumont, and she’s a friend of Leila Vance.” 

During the morning, Mrs. Shotwell found it con- 
venient to speak to Leila Vance; and they exchanged 
a pleasant word or two — merely the amiable civilities 
of two women who recognise each other socially as 
well as personally. 

And it happened in that way, a few days later, that 
Helen Shotwell met this pretty friend of Leila Vance — 
Palla Dumont — the girl in black. 

175 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


And Palla had looked up from her work with her 
engaging smile, saying : “I know your son, Mrs. Shot- 
well. Is he quite well? I haven’t seen him for such a 
long time.” 

And instantly the invisible antennae of these two 
women became busy exploring, probing, searching, 
and recognising in each other all that remains forever 
incomprehensible to man. 

For Palla somehow understood that Jim had never 
spoken of her to his mother; and yet that his mother 
had heard of her friendship with her son. 

And Helen knew that Palla was quietly aware of 
this, and that the girl’s equanimity remained undis- 
turbed. 

Only people quite sure of themselves preserved seren- 
ity under the merciless exploration of the invisible fem- 
inine antennae. And it was evident that the girl in 
black had nothing to conceal from her in regard to 
her only son — whatever that same son might think he 
ought to make an effort to conceal from his mother. 

To herself Helen thought: “Jim has had his wings 
singed, and has fled the candle.” 

To Palla she said: “Mrs. Vance tells me such inter- 
esting stories of your experiences in Russia. Really, 
it’s like a charming romance — your friendship for the 
poor little Grand Duchess.” 

“A tragic one,” said Palla in a voice so even that 
Helen presently lifted her eyes from her sewing to read 
in her expression something more than the mere words 
that this young girl had uttered. And saw a still, pale 
face, sensitive and very lovely; and the needle flying 
over a bandage no whiter than the hand that held it. 

“It was a great shock to you — her death,” said 
Helen. 


176 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


“Yes.” 

“And — you were there at the time ! How dreadful !” 

Palla lifted her brown eyes: “I can’t talk about it 
yet,” she said so simply that Helen’s sixth sense, always 
alert for information from the busy, invisible antennae, 
suddenly became convinced that there were no more 
hidden depths to explore — no motives to suspect, no 
pretense to expose. 

Day after day she chose to seat herself between 
Palla and Leila Yance; and the girl began to fascinate 
her. 

There was no effort to please on Palla’s part, other 
than that natural one born of sweet-tempered consider- 
ation for everybody. There seemed to be no pretence, 
no pose. 

Such untroubled frankness, such unconscious can- 
dour were rather difficult to believe in, yet Helen was 
now convinced that in Palla these phenomena were quite 
genuine. And she began to understand more clearly, as 
the week wore on, why her son might have had a hard 
time of it with Palla Dumont before he returned to 
more familiar pastures, where camouflage and not can- 
dour was the rule in the gay and endless game of blind- 
man’s buff. 

“This girl,” thought Helen Shotwell to herself, 
“could easily have taken Jim away from Elorn Sharrow 
had she chosen to do so. There is no doubt about her 
charm and her goodness. She certainly is a most un- 
usual girl.” 

But she did not say this to her only son. She did 
not even tell him that she had met his girl in black. 
And Palla had not informed him; she knew that; be- 
cause the girl herself had told her that she had not 
177 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


seen Jim for “a long, long time.” It really was not 
nearly as long as Palla seemed to consider it. 

Helen lunched with Leila Vance one day. The former 
spoke pleasantly of Palla. 

“She’s such a darling,” said Mrs. Vaace, “but the 
child worries me.” 

“Why?” 

“Well, she’s absorbed some ultra-modem Russian 
notions — socialistic ones — rather shockingly radical. 
Can you imagine it in a girl who began her novitiate 
as a Carmelite nun?” 

Helen said: “She does not seem to have a tendency 
toward extremes.” 

“She has. That' awful affair in Russia seemed to 
shock her from one extreme to another. It’s a long 
way from the cloister to the radical rostrum.” 

“She spoke of this new Combat Club.” 

“She organised it,” said Leila. “They have a hall 
where they invite public discussion of social questions 
three nights a week. The other three nights, a rival 
and very red club rents the hall and howls for anarchy 
and blood.” 

“Isn’t it strange?” said Helen. “One cam not imagine 
such a girl devoting herself to radical propaganda.” 

“Too radical,” said Leila. “I’m keeping an uneasy 
eye on that very wilful and wrong-headed child. Why, 
my dear, she has the most fastidious, the sweetest, the 
most chaste mind, and yet the things she calmly dis- 
cusses would make your hair curl.” 

“For example?” inquired Helen, astonished. 

“Well, for example, they’ve all concluded that it’s 
time to strip poor old civilisation of her tinsel customs, 
thread-worn conventions, polite legends, and pleasant 
falsehoods. 


178 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


“All laws are silly. Everybody is to do as they 
please, conforming only to the universal law of Love 
and Service. Do you see where that would lead some 
of those pretty hot-heads?” 

“Good heavens, I should think so !” 

“Of course. But they can’t seem to understand that 
the unscrupulous are certain to exploit them — that the 
most honest motives — the purest — invite that certain 
disaster consequent on social irregularities. 

“Palla, so far, is all hot-headed enthusiast — hot- 
hearted theorist. But I remember that she did take 
the white veil once. And, as I tell you, I shall try to 
keep her within range of my uneasy vision. Because,” 
she added, “she’s really a perfect darling.” 

“She is a most attractive girl,” said Helen slowly; 
“but I think she’d be more attractive still if she were 
happily married.” 

“And had children.” 

Their eyes met, unsmilingly, yet in silent accord. 

Their respective carg awaited them at the Ritz and 
took them in different directions. But all the afternoon 
Helen Shotwell’s mind was occupied with what she now 
knew of Palla Dumont. And she realised that she 
wished the girl were back in Russia in spite of all her 
charm and fascination — yes, on account of it 

Because this lovely, burning asteroid might easily 
cross the narrow orbit through which her own social 
world spun peacefully in its orderly progress amid 
that metropolitan galaxy called Society. 

Leila Vance was part of that galaxy. So was her 
own and only son. Wandering meteors that burnt so 
prettily might yet do damage. 

For Helen, having known this girl, found it not any 

179 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


too easy to believe that her son could have relinquished 
her completely in so disturbingly brief a time. 

Had she been a young man she knew that she would 
not have done so. And, knowing it, she was troubled. 

Meanwhile, her only son was troubled, too, as he 
walked slowly homeward through the winter fog. 

And by the time he was climbing his front steps 
he had concluded to accept this girl as she was — or 
thought she was — to pull no more long faces or sour 
faces, but to go back to her, resolutely determined 
to enjoy her friendship and her friends too; and give 
his long incarcerated sense of humour an airing, even 
if he suffered acutely while it revelled. 


CHAPTER XIII 


P ALLA’S activities seemed to exhilarate her phys- 
ically and mentally. Body and brain were now 
fully occupied ; and, if the profit to her soul were 
dubious, nevertheless the restless spirit of the girl now 
had an outlet ; and at home and in the Combat Club she 
planned and discussed and investigated the world’s woes 
to her ardent heart’s content. 

Physically, too, Red Cross and canteen work gave 
her much needed occupation; and she w r ent everywhere 
on foot, never using bus, tram or taxicab. The result 
was, in spite of late and sometimes festive hours, that 
Palla had become something more than an unusually 
pretty girl, for there was much of real beauty in her 
full and charming face and in her enchantingly rounded 
yet lithe and lissome figure. 

About the girl, also, there seemed to be a new fresh- 
ness like fragrance — a virginal sweetness — that inde- 
finable perfume of something young andi vigorous that 
is already in bud. 

That morning she went over to the dingy row of 
buildings to sign the lease of the hall for three evenings 
a week, as quarters for Combat Club No. 1. 

The stuffy place where the Red Flag Club had met 
the night before was still reeking with stale smoke and 
the effluvia of the unwashed; but the windows were 
181 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


open and a negro was sweeping up a litter of defunct 
cigars. 

“Yaas’m, Mr. Puma’s office is next do’,” he replied 
to Palla’s inquiry ; “ — Sooperfillum Co’poration. 

Yaas’m.” 

Next door had been a stable and auction ring, and 
odours characteristic still remained, although now the 
ring had been partitioned, boarded over and floored, and 
Mr. Hewitt’s glass rods full of blinding light were 
suspended above the studio ceilings of the Super-Pic- 
ture Corporation. 

Palla entered the brick archway. An office on the 
right bore the name of Angelo Puma; and that large, 
richly coloured gentleman hastily got out of his desk 
chair and flashed a pair of magnificent as well as as- 
tonished eyes upon Palla as she opened the door and 
walked in. 

When she had seated herself and stated her business, 
Puma, with a single gesture, swept from the office 
several men and a stenographer, and turned to Palla. 

“Is it you, then, who are this Combat Club which 
would rent from me the hall next door !” he exclaimed, 
showing every faultless tooth in his head. 

Palla smiled: “I am empowered by the club to sign 
a lease.” 

“That is sufficient!” exclaimed Puma, with a superb 
gesture. “So! It is signed! Your desire is enough. 
The matter is accomplished when you express the wish !” 

Palla blushed a little but smilingly affixed her sig- 
nature to the papers elaborately presented by Angelo 
Puma. 

“A lease?” he remarked, with a flourish of his large, 
sanguine, and jewelled hand. “A detail merely for your 
security, Miss Dumont. For me, I require only the 
182 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


expression of your slightest wish. That, to me, is * 
command more binding than the seal of the notary !” 

And he flashed his dazzling smile on Palla, who was 
tucking her copy of the agreement into her muff. 

“Thank you so much, Mr. Puma,” she said, almost 
inclined to laugh at his extravagances. And she laid 
down a certified check to cover the first month’s rental. 

Mr. Puma bowed; his large, heavily lashed black 
eyes were very brilliant ; his mouth much too red under 
the silky black moustache. 

“For me,” he said impulsively, “art alone matters. 
What is money? What is rent? What are all the an- 
noying details of commerce? Interruptions to the soul- 
flow! Checks to the fountain jet of inspiration! Art 
only is important. Have you ever seen a cinema 
studio, Miss Dumont?” 

Palla never had. 

“Would it interest you, perhaps?” 

“Thank you — some time ” 

“It is but a step ! They are working. A peep will 
take but a moment — if you please — a thousand ex- 
cuses that I proceed to show you the way ! ” 

She stepped through a door. From a narrow ante- 
room she saw the set-scene in a ghastly light, where 
men in soiled shirt-sleeves dragged batteries of electric 
lights about, each underbred face as livid as the visage 
of a corpse too long unburied. 

There were women there, too, looking a little more 
human in their makeups under the horrible bluish glare. 
Camera men were busy; a cadaverous and profane di- 
rector, with his shabby coat-collar turned up, was talk- 
ing loudly in a Broadway voice and jargon to a bewil- 
dered girl wearing a ball gown. 

As Puma led Palla through the corridor from par- 

183 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


tition to partition, disclosing each set with its own scene 
and people — the whole studio full of blatant noise and 
ghastly faces or painted ones, Palla thought she had 
never before beheld such a concentration of every type 
of commonness in her entire existence. Faces, shapes, 
voices, language, all were essentially the properties of 
cogenital vulgarity. The language, too, had to be 
sharply rebuked by Puma once or twice amid the 
wrangling of director, camera man and petty subordi- 
nates. 

“So intense are the emotions evoked by a fanatic 
devotion to art,” he explained to Palla, “that, at 
moments, the old, direct and vigorous Anglo-Saxon 
tongue is heard here, unashamed. What will you? It 
is art ! It is the fervour that forgets itself in blind 
devotion — in rapturous self-dedication to the god of 
Truth and Beauty !” 

As she turned away, she heard from a neighbouring 
partition the hoarse expostulations of one of Art’s 
blind acolytes: “Say, f’r Christ’s sake, Delmour, what 
the hell’s loose in your bean! Yeh done it wrong an’ 

yeh know damn well yeh done it wrong ” 

Puma opened another door: “One of our projection 
rooms, Miss Dumont. If it is your pleasure to see a 

few reels run off ” 

“Thank you, but I really must go ” 

The office door stood open and she went out that way. 
Mr. Puma confronted her, moistly brilliant of eye: 

“For me, Miss Dumont, I am frank like there never 
was a child in arms! Yes. I am all art; all heart. 
For me, beauty is God! — ” be kissed his fat fingers 
and wafted the caress toward the dirty ceiling. 

“Please excuse,” he said with his powerful smile, 

184 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


“but have you ever, perhaps, thought, Miss Dumont, 
of the screen as a career?” 

“I?” asked Palla, surprised and amused. “No, Mr. 
Puma, I haven’t.” 

“A test! Possibly, in you, latent, sleeps the ex- 
quisite apotheosis of Art incarnate! Who can tell? 
You have youth, beauty, a mind! Yes. Who knows 
if, also, happily, genius slumbers within? Yes?” 

“I’m very sure it doesn’t,” replied Palla, laughing. 

“Ah ! Who can be sure of anything — even of heaven !” 
cried Puma. 

“Very true,” said Palla, trying to speak seriously, 
“But the career of a moving picture actress does not 
attract me.” 

“The emoluments are enormous !” 

“Thank you, no ” 

“A test! We try! It would be amusing for you to 
see yourself upon the screen as you are, Miss Dumont? 
As you are — young, beautiful, vivacious ” 

He still blocked her way, so she said, laying her 
gloved hand on the knob: 

“Thank you very much. Some day, perhaps. But 
I really must go ” 

He immediately bowed, opened the glass door, and 
went with her to the brick arch. 

“I do not think you know,” he said, “that I have 
entered partnership with a friend of yours?” 

“A friend of mine?” 

“Mr. Elmer Skidder.” 

“Oh,” she exclaimed, smilingly, “I hope the partner- 
ship will be a fortunate one. Will you kindly inform 
Mr. Skidder of my congratulations and best wishes for 
bis prosperity? And you may say that I shall be glad 
to hear from him about his new enterprise.” 

185 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


To Mr. Puma’s elaborate leave-taking she vouch- 
safed a quick, amused nod, then hurried away eastward 
to keep her appointment at the Canteen. 

About five o’clock she experienced a healthy inclina- 
tion for tea and wavered between the Plaza and home. 
Use and Marya were with her, but an indefinable some- 
thing caused her to hesitate, and finally to let them 
go to the Plaza without her. 

What might be the reason of this sudden whim for an 
unpremeditated cup of tea at home she scarcely took 
the trouble to analyse. Yet, she was becoming con- 
scious of a subtle and increasing exhilaration as she 
approached her house and mounted the steps. 

Suddenly, as she fitted the latch-key, her heart leaped 
and she knew why she had come home. 

For a moment her fast pulse almost suffocated her. 
Was she mad to return here on the wildest chance that 
Jim might have come — might be inside, waiting? And 
what in the world made her suppose so? — for she had 
neither seen him nor heard from him in many days. 

“I’m certainly a little crazy,” she thought as she 
opened the door. At the same moment her eyes fell on 
his overcoat and hat and stick. 

Her skirt was rather tight, but her limbs were supple 
and her feet' light, and she ran upstairs to the living 
room. 

As he rose from an armchair she flung her arms out 
with a joyous little cry and wrapped them tightly 
around his neck, muff, reticule and all. 

“You darling,” he was saying over and over in a 
happy but rather stupid voice, and crushing her narrow 
hands between his ; “ — you adorable child, you wonder- 
ful girl ” 


186 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


“Oh, I’m so glad, Jim! Shall we have tea? . . . 

You dear fellow! I’m so very happy that you came! 
Wait a moment — ” she leaned wide from him and touched 
an electric bell. “Now you’ll have to behave properly,” 
she said with delightful malice. 

He released her; she spoke to the maid and then 
went over with him to the sofa, flinging muff, stole 
and purse on a chair. 

“Pure premonition,” she explained, stripping the 
gloves from her hands. “Ilse and Marya were all for 
the Plaza, but something sent me homeward! Isn’t 
it really very strange, Jim? Why, I almost had an 
inclination to run when I turned into our street — not 
even knowing why, of course ” 

“You’re so sweet and generous!” he blurted out. 
“Why don’t you raise hell with me?” 

“You know,” she said demurely, “I don’t raise hell, 
dear.” 

“But I’ve behaved so rottenly ” 

“It really wasn’t friendly to neglect me so entirely.” 

He looked down — laid one hand on hers in silence. 

“I understand, Jim,” she said sweetly. “Is it all 
right now?” 

“It’s all right. ... Of course I haven’t 
changed.” 

“Oh.” 

“But it’s all right.” 

“Really ?” 

“Yes. . . . What is there for me to do but 

to accept things as they are?” 

“You mean, ‘accept me as I am!’ Oh, Jim, it’s so 
dear of you. And you know well enough that I care 
for no other man as I do for you ” 

The waitress with the tea-tray cut short that sort of 

187 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


conversation. Palla’s appetite was a healthy one. She 
unpinned her hat and flung it on the piano. Then she 
nestled down sideways on the sofa, one leg tucked under 
the other knee, her hair in enough disorder to worry any 
other girl — and began to tuck away tea and cakes. 
Sometimes, in animated conversation, she gesticulated 
with a buttered bun — once she waved her cup to em- 
phasise her point : 

“The main idea, of course, is to teach the eternal 
law of Love and Service,” she explained. “But, Jim, 
I have become recently, and in a measure, militant.” 

“You’re going to love the unwashed with a club?” 

“You very impudent boy! We’re going to combat 
this new and terrible menace — this sinister flood that 
threatens the world — the crimson tide of anarchy!” 

“Good work, darling! I enlist for a machine gun 
uni ” 

“Listen ! The battle is to be entirely verbal. Our 
Combat Club No. 1, the first to be established — is open 
to anybody and everybody. All are at liberty to enter 
into the discussions. We who believe in the Law of Love 
and Service shall have our say every evening that the 
club is open ” 

“The Reds may come and take a crack at you.” 

“The Reds are welcome. We wish to face them 
across the rostrum, not across a barricade!” 

“Well, you dear girl, I can’t see how any Red is 
going to resist you. And if any does, I’ll knock his 
bally block off ” 

“Oh, Jim, you’re so vernacularly inclined f And you’re 
very flippant, too ” 

“I’m not really,” he said in a lower voice. “What- 
ever you care about could not fail to appeal to me.” 

188 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


She gave him a quick, sweet glance, then searched 
the tea-tray to reward him. 

As she gave him another triangle of cinnamon toast, 
she remembered something else. It was on the tip of 
her tongue, now; and she checked herself. 

He had not spoken of it. Had his mother mentioned 
meeting her at the Red Cross? If not — was it merely 
a natural forgetfulness on his mother’s^ part? Was 
her silence significant? 

Nibbling pensively at her cinnamon toast, Palia pon- 
dered this. But the girl’s mind worked too directly 
for concealment to come easy. 

“I’m wondering,” she said, “whether your mother 
mentioned our meeting at the Red Cross.” And she 
knew immediately by his expression that he heard it 
for the first time. 

“I was introduced at our headquarters by Leila 
Vance,” said Palla, in her even voice ; “and your mother 
and she are acquaintances. That is how it happened, 
Jim.” 

He was still somewhat flushed but he forced a smile: 
“Did you find my mother agreeable, Palla?” 

“Yes. And she is so beautiful with her young face 
and pretty white hair. She always sits between Leila 
and me while we sew.” 

“Did you say you knew me?” 

“Yes, of course.” 

“Of course,” he repeated, reddening again. 

No man ever has successfully divined any motive 
which any woman desires to conceal. 

Why his mother had not spoken of Palla to him he 
did not know. He was aware, of course, that nobody 
within the circle into which he had been born would 
tolerate Palla’s social convictions. Had she casually 
189 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


and candidly revealed a few of them to his mother 
in the course of the morning’s conversation over their 
sewing? 

He gave Falla a quick look, encountered her slightly 
amused eyes, and turned redder than ever. 

“You dear boy,” she said, smiling, “I don’t think 
your very charming mother would be interested in 
knowing me. The informalitjr of ultra-modern people 
could not appeal to her generation.” 

“Did you — talk to her about ” 

“No. But it might happen. You know, Jim, I 
have nothing to conceal.” 

The old troubled look had come back into his face. 
She noticed it and led the conversation to lighter 
themes. 

“We danced last night after dinner,” she said. 
“There were some amusing people here for dinner. 
Then we went to see such a charming play — Tea for 
Three — and then we had supper at the Biltmore and 
danced. . . . Will you dine with me to-morr( :w?” 

“Of course.” 

“Do you think you’d enjoy it? — a lot of people ..no 
entertain the same shocking beliefs that I do?” 

“All right!” he said with emphasis. “I’m through 
playing the role of death’s-head at the feast. I told 
you that I’m going to take you as you are and enjoy 
you and our friends — and quit making an ass of 
myself ” 

“Dear, you never did!” 

“Oh, yes, I did. And maybe I’m a predestined ass. 
But every ass has a pair of heels and I’m going to 
flourish mine very gaily from now on !” 

She protested laughingly at his self-characterisation, 
and bent toward him a little, caressing his sleeve in 
190 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


appeal, or shaking it in protest as he denounced him- 
self and promised to take the world more gaily in the 
future. 

“You’ll see,” he remarked, rising to take his leave: 
“I may even call the bluff of some of your fluffy ultra- 
modern friends and try a few trial marriages with each 
of ’em ” 

“Oh, Jim, you’re absolutely horrid ! As if my friends 
believed in such disgusting ideas !” 

“They do — some of ’em.” 

“They don’t!” 

“Well, then, I do!” he announced so gravely that she 
had to look at him closely in the rather dim lamplight 
to see whether he was jesting. 

She walked to the top of the staircase with him; 
let him take her into his arms ; submitted to his kiss. 
Always a little confused by his demonstrations, never- 
theless her hand retained his for a second longer, as 
though shyly reluctant to let him go. 

“I am so glad you came,” she said. “Don’t neglett 
me any more.” 

And so he went his way. 

His mother discovered him in the library, dressed 
for dinner. Something, as he rose — his manner of look- 
ing at her, perhaps — warned her that they were not 
perfectly en rapport. Then the subtle, invisible an- 
tennse, exploring caressingly what is so palpable in the 
heart of man, told her that once more she was to deal 
with the girl in black. 

When his mother was seated, he said : “I didn’t know 
you had met Palla Dumont, mother.” 

Helen hesitated: “Mrs. Vance’s friend? Oh, yes; 
she comes to the Red Cross with Leila Vance.” 

191 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


“Do you like her?” 

In her son’s eyes she was aware of that subtle and 
unconscious appeal which all mothers of boys are, some 
day, fated to see and understand. 

Sometimes the appeal is disguised, sometimes it is 
so subtle that only mothers are able to perceive it. 

But what to do about it is the perennial problem. 
For between lack of sympathy and response there are 
many nuances ; and opposition is always to be avoided. 

Helen said, pleasantly, that the girl appeared to 
be amiable and interesting. 

“I know her merely in that way,” she continued. “We 
sit there sewing slings, pads, compresses, and band- 
ages, and we gossip at random with our neighbours.” 

“I like her very much,” said Jim. 

“She does seem to be an attractive girl,” said his 
mother carelessly. . • . “Are you going to Yama 

Farms for the week end?” 

“No.” 

“Oh, I’m sorry. The Speedwells’ party is likely to 
be such a jolly affair, and I hear there’s lots of snow 
up there.” 

“I haven’t met Mrs. Vance,” said her son. “Is she 
nice?” 

“Leila Vance? Why, of course.” 

“Who is she?” 

“She married an embassy attache, Captain Vance. 
He was in the old army — killed at Mons four years 
ago.” 

“She and Palla are intimate?” 

“I believe they are good friends,” remarked his 
mother, deciding not to attempt to turn the current 
of conversation for the moment. 

192 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


“Mother?” 

“Yes, dear.” 

“I am quite sure I never met a girl I like as well.” 

Helen laughed: “That is a trifle extravagant, isn’t 
it?” 

“No. ... I asked her to marry me.” 

Helen’s heart stood still, then a bright flush stained 
her face. 

“She refused me,” said the boy. 

His mother said very quietly: “Of course this is 
news to us, Jim.” 

“Yes ; I didn’t tell you. I couldn’t, somehow. But 
I’ve told you now.” 

“Dearest,” she said, dropping her hand over his, 
“don’t think me unsympathetic if I say that it really is 
better that she refused you.” 

“I understand, mother.” 

“I hope you do.” 

“Oh, yes. But I don’t think you do. Because I 
am still in love with her.” 

“You poor dear !” 

“It’s rotten luck, isn’t it?” 

“Time heals — ” She checked 1 herself, turned and 
kissed him. 

“After all,” she said, “a soldier learns how to take 
things.” 

And presently: “I do wish you’d go up to Yama 
Farms.” 

“That,” he said, “would be the obvious thing to do. 
Anything to keep going and keep your mind ticking 
away until you’re safely wound up again. . . . 

But I’m not going, dear.” 

Helen looked at him in silence, not wondering what 

193 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


he might be going to do with his week-end instead, 
because she already guessed. 

Before she said anything more his father came in; 
and a moment later dinner was announced. 

Jim slept soundly for the first night in a long time. 
His mother scarcely closed her eyes at all. 


CHAPTER XIV 


T HERE had been a row at the Red Flag Club — a, 
matter of differing opinions between members — 
nothing sufficient to attract the police, but 
enough to break several heads, benches and windows. 
And it was evident that some gentleman’s damaged nos« 
had bled all over the linoleum in the lobby. 

Elmer Skidder, arriving at the studio next morning 
in his brand new limousine, heard about the shindy 
and went into the club to inspect the wreckage. Then, 
mad all through, he started out to find Puma. But a 
Sister Art had got the best of Angelo Puma in a 
questionable cabaret the night before, and he had not 
yet arrived at the studio of the Super-Picture Cor- 
poration. 

Skidder, thrifty by every instinct, and now smarting 
under his wrongs at the hands — and feet — of the Red 
Flag Club, went away in his gorgeous limousine to find 
Sondheim, who paid the rental and who lived in the 
Bronx. 

It was a long way; every mile and every gallon of 
gasoline made Skidder madder; and when at length 
he arrived at the brand new, jerry-built apartment 
house inhabited by Max Sondheim, he had concluded 
that the Red Flag Club was an undesirable tenant and 
that it must be summarily kicked out. 

Sondheim was still in bed, but a short-haired and 
195 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


pallid young woman, with assorted spots on her com- 
plexion, bade Skidder enter, and opened the chamber 
door for him. 

The bedroom, which smelled of sour fish, was very 
cold, very dirty, and very blue with cigar smoke. The 
remains of a delicatessen breakfast stood on a table 
near the only window, which was tightly shut, and 
under the sill of which a radiator emitted explosive 
symptoms of steam to come. 

Sondheim sprawled under the bed-covers, smoking; 
two other men sat on the edge of the bed — Karl Kast- 
ner and Nathan Bromberg. Both were smoking porce- 
lain pipes. Three slopping quarts of beer decorated 
the wash stand. 

Skidder, who had halted in the doorway as the full 
aroma of the place smote him, now ‘entered at the curt 
suggestion of Sondheim, but refused a chair. 

“Say, Sondheim,” he began, “I been to the club this 
morning, and I’ve seen what you’ve done to the place.” 

“Well?” demanded Sondheim, in a growling voice, 
“what haf we done?” 

“Oh, nothing; — smashed the furniture f’r instance. 
That’s all. But it don’t go with me. See?” 

Kastner got up and gave him a sinister, near-sighted 
look: “If ve done damach ve pay,” he remarked. 

“Sure you’ll pay !” blustered Skidder. “And that’s 
all right, too. But no more for yours truly. I’m 
through. Here’s where your bunch quits the hall for 
keeps. Get m.e? ? ’ 

“Please?” inquired Kastner, turning a brick red. 

“I say I’m through !” blustered Skidder. “You gotta 
get other quarters. It don’t pay us to keep on buying 
benches and mending windows, even if you cough up 
for ’em. It don’t pay us to rent the hall to your club 
196 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


and get all this here notoriety, what with your red flags 
and the po-lice hanging around and nosin’ into every- 
thing — — ” 

“Ach wass!” snapped Kastner, “of vat are you 
speaking? Iss it for you to concern yourself mit our 
club und vat iss it ve do?” 

“Say, who d’yeh think you’re talkin’ to?” retorted 
Skidder, his eyes snapping furiously. “Grab this from 
me, old scout? — I’m half owner of that hall and I’m 
telling you to get out! Is that plain?” 

“So?” Kastner sneered at him and nudged Sond- 
heim, who immediately sat up in bed and levelled an 
unwashed hand at Skidder. 

“You think you fire us?” he shouted, his eyes in- 
flamed and his dirty fingers crisping to a talon. “You 
go home and tell Puma what you say to us. Then 
you learn something maybe, what you don’t know 
already !” 

“I’ll learn you something!” retorted Skidder. “Just 
wait till I show Puma the wreckage ” 

“Let him look at it and be damned!” roared Brom- 
berg. “Go home and show it to him! And see if he 
talks about firing us !” 

“Say,” demanded Skidder, astonished, “do you fellows 
think you got any drag with Angy Puma?” 

“Go back and ask him!” growled Bromberg. “And 
don’t try to come around here and get fresh again. 
Listen! You go buy what benches you say we broke 
and send the bill to me, and keep your mouth shut and 
mind your fool business !” 

“I’ll mind my own and yours too !” screamed Skidder, 
seized by an ungovernable access of fury. “Say, you 
poor nut ! — you sick mink ! — you stale hunk of cheese ! 
— if you come down my way again I’ll kick your shirt- 
197 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


tail for you! Get that?” And he slammed the door and 
strode out in a flaming rage. 

But when, still furiously excited, he arrived once more 
at the office, — and when Puma, who had just entered, 
had listened in sullen consternation to his story, he 
received another amazing and most unpleasant shock. 
For Puma told him flatly that the tenancy of the Red 
Flag Club suited him ; that no lease could be broken, 
except by mutual consent of partners ; and that he, 
Skidder, had had no business to go to Sondheim with 
any such threat of eviction unless he had first con- 
sulted his partner’s wishes. 

“Well, what — what — ” stammered Skidder — “what 
the hell drag have those guys got with you?” 

“Why is it you talk foolish?” retorted Puma sharply. 
“Drag? Did Sondheim say ” 

“No! 1 say it. I ask you what have those crazy 
nuts got on you that you stand for all this rumpus?” 

Puma’s lustrous eyes, battered but still magnificent, 
fixed themselves on Skidder. 

“Go out,” he said briefly to his stenographer. Then, 
when the girl had gone, and the glass door closed be- 
hind her, he turned heavily and gazed at Skidder some 
more. And, after a few moments’ silence: “Go on,” he 
said. “What did Sondheim say about me?” 

Skidder’s small, shifty eyes were blinking furiously 
and his essentially suspicious mind was also operating 
at full speed. When he had calculated what to say he 
took the chance, and said: 

“Sondheim gave me to understand that he’s got such 
a hell of a pull with you that I can’t kick him out 
of my property. What do you know about that, 
Angelo?” 


198 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


“Go on,” said Puma impatiently, “what else did he 
say about me?” 

“Ain’t I telling you*?” 

“Tell more.” 

Skidder had no more to tell, so he manufactured 
more. 

“Well,” he continued craftily, “I didn’t exactly get 
what that kike said.” But his grin and his manner gave 
his words the lie, as he intended they should. “Some- 
thing about your being in dutch — ” He checked him- 
self as Puma’s black eyes lighted 1 with a momentary 
glare. 

“What? He tells you I am in with Germans 1” 

“Naw; — in dutch!” 

Puma’s sanguinary skin reddened; his puffy fingers 
fished for a cigar in the pocket of his fancy waistcoat ; 
he found one and lighted it, not looking at his partner. 
Then he picked up the morning paper. 

Skidder shrugged; stood up, pretending to yawn; 
started to open the door. 

“Elmer?” 

“Yeh? What y’want?” 

“I want to know exactly what Max Sondheim said 
to you about me.” 

“Well, you better go ask Sondheim.” 

“No. I ask you — my friend — my associate in busi- 
ness ” 

“A fine associate ! — when I can’t kick in when I want 
to kick out a bunch of nuts that’s wrecking the hall, 
just because they got a drag with you ” 

“Listen. I am frank like there never was a ” 

“Sure. Go on!” 

“I say it! Yes! I am frank like hell. From my 
friend and partner I conceal nothing ” 

199 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


“Not even the books,” grinned Skidder. 

“Elmer. You pain me. I who am all heart! Elmer, 
I ask it of you if you will so kindly tell me what it is 
that Sondheim has said to you about this ‘drag.’ ” 

“He said,” replied the other viciously, “that he had 
you cinched. He said you’d hand me the ha-ha when 
I saw you. And you’ve done it.” 

“Pardon. I did not say to you a ha-ha, Elmer. I 
was surprised when you have told me how you have gone 
to Sondheim so roughly, without one word to me ” 

“You was soused to the gills last night. I didn’t 
know when you’d show up at the studio ” 

“It was not just to me that you go to Sondheim in 
this so surprising manner, without informing me.” He 
looked at his cigar; the wrapper was broken and he 
licked the place with a fat tongue. “Elmer?” 

“That’s me,” replied the other, who had been slyly 
watching him. “Spit it out, Angy. What’s on your 
mind ?” 

“I tell you, Elmer!” 

Puma’s face became suddenly wreathed in guileless 
smiles: “Me, I am frank like there never — but no 
matter,” he added; “listen attentively to what I shall 
say to you secretly, that I also desire to be rid of this 
Red Flag Club.” 

“Well, then ” 

“A moment! I am embarrass. Yes. You ask why? 
I shall tell you. It is this. Formerly I have reside in 
Mexico. My business has been in Mexico City. I have 
there a little cinema theatre. In 1913 I arrive in New 
York. You ask me why I came? And I am frank 
like — ” his full smile burst on Skidder — “like a heaven 
angel! But it is God’s truth I came here to make of 
the cinema a monument to Art.” 

200 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


“And make your little pile too, eh, Angy?” 

“As you please. But this I affirm to you, Elmer ; of 
politics I am innocent like there never was a cherubim ! 
Yes! And yet your Government has question me. 
Why ? you ask so naturally. My God ! I know no one 
in New York. I arrive. I repair to a recommended 
hotel. I make acquaintance — unhappily — with people 
who are under a suspicion of German sympathy!” 

“What the devil did you do that for?” demanded 
Skidder. 

Puma spread his jewelled fingers helplessly. 

“How am I to know? I encounter people. I seek 
capital for my art. Me, I am all heart: I suspect 
nobody. I say : ‘Gentlemen, my art is my life. With- 
out it I cease to exist. I desire capital; I desire sym- 
pathy; I desire intelligent recognition and practical 
aid.’ Yes. In time some gentlemen evince confidence. 
I am offered funds. I produce, with joy, my first pic- 
ture. Ha! The success is extravagant! But — alas!” 

“What tripped you?” 

“Alas,” repeated Puma, “your Government arrests 
some gentlemen who have lend to me much funds. Why ? 
Imagine my grief, my mortification ! They are suspect 
of German propaganda! Oh, my God!” 

“How is it they didn’t pinch you?” asked Skidder 
coldly, and beginning to feel very uneasy. 

“Me? No! They investigate. They discover only 
Art!” 

Skidder squinted at him nervously. If he had heard 
anything of that sort in connection with Puma he never 
would have flirted with him financially. 

“Well, then, what’s this drag they got with you? — 
Sondheim and the other nuts?” 

201 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


“I tell you. Letters quite innocent but polite they 
have in possession ” 

“Blackmail, by heck!” 

“I must be considerate of Sondheim.” 

“Or he’ll squeal on you. Is that it?” 

Puma’s black eyes were flaring up again ; the heavy 
colour stained his face. 

“Me, I am ” 

“All right. Sondheim’s got something on you, then. 
Has he?” 

“It is nothing. Yet, it has embarrass me ” 

“That ratty kike! I get you, Angy. You were 
played. Or maybe you did some playing too. Aw! 
wait!” — as Puma protested — “I’m getting you, by 
gobs. Sure. And you’re rich, now, and business is 
pretty good, and you wish Sondheim would let you 
alone.” 

“Yes, surely.” 

“How much hush-cash d’yeh pay him?” 

“I?” 

“Yaas, you! Come on, now, Angy. What does he 
stick you up for per month?” 

Puma’s face became empurpled: “He is a scoundrel,” 
he said thickly. “Me — I wish to God and Jesus Christ 
I saw the last of him!” He got up, and his step was 
lithe as a leopard’s as he paced the room, ranging the 
four walls as though caged. And, for the first time, 
then Skidder realised that this velvet-eyed, velvet- 
footed man might possibly be rather dangerous — 
dangerous to antagonise, dangerous to be associated 
with in business. 

“Say,” he blurted out, “what else did you let me 
in for when I put my money into your business ? Think 
I’m going to be held up by any game like that ? Think 
202 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


I’m going to stand for any shake-down from that 
gang? Watch me.” 

Puma stopped and looked at him stealthily: “What 
is it you would do, Elmer?” 

But Skidder offered no suggestion. He remained, 
however, extremely uneasy. For it was plain enough 
that Puma had been involved in dealings sufficiently 
suspicious to warrant Government surveillance. 

All Skidder’s money and real estate were now in- 
vested in Super-Pictures. No wonder he was anxious. 
No wonder Puma, also, seemed worried. 

For, whatever he might have done in the past of a 
shady nature, now he had become prosperous and finan- 
cially respectable and, if let alone, would doubtless con- 
tinue to make a great deal of money for Skidder as 
well as for himself. And Skidder, profoundly troubled, 
wondered whether his partner had ever been guiltily 
involved in German propaganda, and had escaped Gov- 
ernment detection only to fall a victim, in his dawning 
prosperity, to blackmailing associates of earlier days. 

“That mutt Sondheim looks like a bad one to me, 
and the other guy — Kastner,” he observed gloomily. 

“It is better that we should not offend them.” 

“Just as you say, brother.” 

“I say it. Yes. We shall be wise to turn to them 
a pleasing face.” 

“Sure. The best thing to do for a while is to stall 
along,” nodded Skidder, “ — but always be ready for 
a chance to hand it to them. That’s safest ; wait till 
we get the goods on them. Then slam it to ’em 
plenty !” 

“If they annoy me too much,” purred Puma, dis- 
playing every dazzling tooth, “it may not be so agree- 
203 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


able for them. I am bad man to crowd. . . . 

M ean while ’ ’ 

“Sure; we’ll stall along, Angy!” 

They opened the glass door and went out into the 
studio. And Puma began again on his favourite theme, 
the acquiring of Broadway property and the erection 
of a cinema theatre. And Skidder, with his limited 
imagination of a cross-roads storekeeper, listened cau- 
tiously, yet always conscious of agreeable thrills when- 
ever the subject was mentioned. 

And, although he knew that capital was shy and 
that conditions were not favourable, his thoughts al- 
ways reverted to a man he might be willing to go into 
such a scheme with — the president of the Shadow Hill 
Trust Company, Alonzo Pawling. 

At that very moment, too, it chanced that Mt. 
Pawling’s business had brought him to New York — in 
fact, his business was partly with Palla Dumont, and 
they were now lunching together at the Bitz. 

Alonzo Pawling stood well over six feet. He still 
had all his hair — which was dyed black — and also an 
inky pair of old-fashioned side whiskers. For the 
beauty of his remaining features less could be said, 
because his eyes were a melancholy and faded blue, his 
nose very large and red, and his small, loose mouth 
seemed inclined to sag, as though saturated with mois- 
ture. 

Many years a widower he had, when convenient op- 
portunity presented itself, never failed to offer mar- 
riage to Palla Dumont. And when, as always, she 
refused him in her frank, amused fashion, they returned 
without embarrassment to their amiable footing of 
many years — she as child of his old friend and neigh- 
204 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


bour, Judge Dumont, he as her financial adviser and 
banker. 

As usual, Mr. Pawling had offered Palla his large, 
knotty hand in wedlock that morning. And now that 
this inevitable preliminary was safely over, they were 
approaching the end of a business luncheon on entirely 
amiable terms with each other. 

Financial questions had been argued, investments de- 
cided upon, news of the town discussed, and Palla was 
now telling him about Elmer Skidder and his new and 
apparently prosperous venture into moving pictures. 

“He came to see me last evening,” she said, smiling 
at the recollection, “and he arrived in a handsome limou- 
sine with an extra man on the front — oh, very gor- 
geous, Mr. Pawling! — and we had tea and he told me 
how prosperous he had become in the moving picture 
business.” 

“I guess,” said Mr. Pawling, “that there’s a lot of 
money in moving pictures. But nobody ever seems to 
get any of it except the officials of the corporation and 
their favourite stars.” 

“It seems to be an exceedingly unattractive busi- 
ness,” said Palla, recollecting her unpleasant impres- 
sions at the Super-Picture studios. 

“The right end of it,” said Mr. Pawling, “is to own 
a big theatre.” 

She smiled: “You wouldn’t advise me to make such 
an investment, would you?” 

Mr. Pawling’s watery eyes rested on her reflectively 
and he sucked in his lower lips as though trying to 
extract the omnipresent moisture. 

“I dunno,” he said absently. 

“Mr. Skidder told me that he would double his in- 
vested capital in a year,” she said. 

205 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


“I guess he was bragging.” 

“Perhaps,” she rejoined, laughing, “but I should 
not care to make such an investment.” 

“Did he ask you?” 

“No. But it seemed to me that he hinted at some- 
thing of that nature. And I was not at all interested 
because I am contented with my little investments and 
my income as it is. I don’t really need much money.” 

Mr. Pawling’s pendulous lip, released, sagged wetly 
and his jet-black eyebrows were lifted in a surprised 
arch. 

“You’re the first person I ever heard say they had 
enough money,” he remarked. 

“But I have !” she insisted gaily. 

Mr. Pawling’s sad horse-face regarded her with faded 
surprise. He passed for a rich man in Shadow Hill. 

“Where is Elmer’s place of business?” he inquired 
finally, producing a worn note-book and a gold pencil. 
And he wrote down the address. 

There was in all the world only one thing that seri- 
ously worried Mr. Pawling, and that was this worn 
note-book. Almost every day of his life he concluded to 
burn it. He lived in a vague and daily fear that it 
might be found on him if he died suddenly. Such 
things could happen — automobile or railroad accidents 
— any one of numberless mischances. 

And still he carried it, and had carried it for years 
— always in a sort of terror while the recent Mrs. 
Pawling was still alive — and in dull but perpetual 
anxiety ever since. 

There were in it pages devoted to figures. There 
were, also, memoranda of stock transactions. There 
were many addresses, too, mostly feminine. , 

Now he replaced it in the breast pocket of his frock- 

206 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


coat, and took out a large wallet strapped with a 
rubber band. 

While he was paying the check, Palla drew on her 
gloves ; and, at the Madison Avenue door, stood chat- 
ting with him a moment longer before leaving for the 
canteen. 

Then, smilingly declining his taxi and offering her 
slender hand in adieu, she went westward on foot as 
usual. And Mr. Pawling’s directions to the chauffeur 
were whispered ones as though he did not care to have 
the world at large share in his knowledge of his own 
occult destination. 

Palla’s duty at the canteen lasted until six o’clock 
that afternoon, and she hurried on her way home be- 
cause people were dining there at seven-thirty. 

With the happy recollection that Jim, also, was din- 
ing with her, she ran lightly up the steps and into the 
house; examined the flowers which stood in jars of 
water in the pantry, called for vases, arranged a cen- 
tre-piece for the table, and carried other clusters of 
blossoms into the little drawing-room, and others still 
upstairs. 

Then she returned to criticise the table and arrange 
the name-cards. And, this accomplished, she ran up- 
stairs again to her own room, where her maid was 
waiting. 

Two or three times in a year — not oftener — Palla 
yielded to a rare inclination which assailed her only 
when unusually excited and happy. That inclination 
was to whistle. 

She whistled, now, while preparing for the bath; 
whistled like a blackbird as she stood before the pier- 
glass before the maid hooked her into a filmy, rosy 

m 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


evening gown — her first touch of colour since assuming 
mourning. 

The bell rang, and the waitress brought an elabor- 
ate florist’s box. There were pink orchids in it and 
Jim’s card ; — perfection. 

How could he have known! She wondered raptu- 
rously, realising all the while that they’d have gone 
quite as well with her usual black. 

Would he come early? She had forgotten to ask it. 
Would he? For, in that event — and considering his 
inclination to take her into his arms — she decided to 
leave off the orchids until the more strenuous rites of 
friendship had been accomplished. 

She was carrying the orchids and the long pin at- 
tached, in her left hand, when the sound of the door- 
bell filled her with abrupt and delightful premonitions. 
She ventured a glance over the banisters, then returned 
hastily to the living room, where he discovered her and 
did exactly what she had feared. 

Her left hand, full of orchids, rested on his shoulder; 
her cool, fresh lips rested on his. Then she retreated, 
inviting inspection of the rosy dinner gown ; and 
fastened her orchids while he was admiring it. 

Her guests began to arrive before either was quite 
ready, so engrossed were they in happy gossip. And 
Palla looked up in blank surprise that almost amounted 
to vexation when the bell announced that their tete-a- 
tete was ended. 

Shotwell had met the majority of Palla’s dinner 
guests. Seated on her right, he received from his 
hostess information concerning some of those he did 
not know. 

“That rather talkative boy with red hair is Larry 
Rideout,” she said in a low voice. “He edits a weekly 
208 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


called The Coming Race. The Post Office authorities 
have refused to pass it through the mails. It’s rather 
advanced, you know.” 

“Who is the girl on his right — the one with the 
chalky map?” 

“Questa Terrett. Don’t you think her pallor is 
fascinating?” 

“No. What particular stunt does she perform?” 

“Don’t be flippant. She writes.” 

“Ads?” 

“Jim ! She writes poems. Haven’t you seen any of 
them?” 

“I don’t think so.” 

“They’re rather modern poems. The lines don’t rhyme 
and there’s no metrical form,” explained Palla. 

“Are they any good?” 

“They’re a little difficult to understand. She leaves 
out so many verbs and nouns ” 

“I know. It’s a part of her disease ” 

“Jim, please be careful. She is taken seriously ” 

“Taken seriously ill? There, dear, I won’t guy your 
guests. What an absolutely deathly face she has !” 

“She is considered beautiful.” 

“She has the profile of an Egyptian. She’s as dead- 
white as an Egyptian leper ” 

“Hush!” 

“Hush it is, sweetness ! Who’s the good-looking chap 
over by Use?” 

“Stanley Wardner.” 

“And his star trick?” 

“He’s a secessionist sculptor.” 

“What’s that?” 

“He is one of the ultra-modern men who has seceded 

209 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


from the Society of American Sculptors to form, with 
a few others, a new group.” 

“Is he any good?” 

“Well, Jim, I don’t know,” she said candidly. “I 
don’t think I am quite in sympathy with his work.” 

“What sort is it?” 

“If I understand him, he is what is termed, I believe, 
a concentrationist. For instance, in a nude figure 
which he is exhibiting in his studio, it’s all a rough 
block of marble except, in the middle of the upper part, 
there is a nose.” 

“A nose!” 

“Really, it is beautifully sculptured,” insisted Palla. 

“But — good heavens ! — isn’t there any other anatom- 
ical feature to that block of marble?” 
i “I explained that he is a concentrationist. His 
school believes in concentrating on a single feature only, 
and in rendering that feature as minutely and perfectly 
as possible.” 

Jim said: “He looks as sane as a broker, too. You 
never can tell, can you, sweetness?” 

He glanced at several other people whose features 
were not familiar, but Palla’s explanations of her 
friends had slightly discouraged him and he made no 
further inquiries. 

Yanya Tchernov was there, dreamy and sweet- 
mannered; Estridge sat by Ilse, looking a trifle care- 
worn, as though hospital work were taking it out of 
him. Marya Lanois was there, too, with her slightly 
slanting green eyes and her tiger-red hair— attracting 
from him a curious sort of stealthy admiration, inex- 
plicable to him because he knew he was so entirely in 
love with Palla. 

A woman of forty sat on his right — he promptly 

210 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


forgot her name each time he heard it — who ate fastid- 
iously and chose birth-control as the subject for con- 
versation. And he dodged it in vain, for her conver- 
sation had become a monologue, and he sat fiddling 
with his food, very red, while the silky voice, so agree- 
able in pitch and intonation, slid smoothly on. 

Afterward Palla explained that she was a celebrated 
sociologist, but Jim remained shy of her. 

Other people came in after dinner. Vanya seated 
himself at the piano and played from one of his un- 
published scores. Ilse sang two Scandinavian songs 
in her fresh, wholesome, melodious voice — the song 
called Ygdrasil, and the Song of Thokk. Wardner had 
brought a violin, and he and Vanya accompanied 
Marya’s Asiatic songs, but with some difficulty on the 
sculptor’s part, as modern instruments are scarcely 
adapted to the sort of Russian music she chose to sing. 

Marya had a way, when singing, which appeared 
almost insolent. Seated, or carelessly erect, her supple 
figure fell into lines of indolently provocative grace; 
and the warm, golden notes welling from her throat 
seemed to be flung broadcast and indifferently to her 
listeners, as alms are often flung, without interest, 
toward abstract poverty and not to the poor breathing 
thing at one’s elbow. 

She sang, in her preoccupied way, one of her savage, 
pentatonic songs, more Mongol than Cossack ; then she 
sang an impudent burlatskiya lazily defiant of her 
listeners; then a so-called “dancing song,” in which 
there was little restraint in word or air. 

The subtly infernal enchantment of girl and music 
was felt by everybody; but several among the illumi- 
nati and the fair ultra-modernettes had now reached 
their limit of breadth and tolerance, and were becoming 
211 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


bored and self-conscious, when abruptly Marya’s figure 
straightened to a lovely severity, her mouth opened 
sweetly as a cherub’s, and, looking up like a little, 
ruddy bird, she sang one of the ancient Kolyadki , 
Vanya alone understanding as his long, thin fingers 
wandered instinctively into an improvised accompani- 
ment: 

I 


‘‘Young tears 
Your fears disguise; 

He is not coming! 

Sweet lips 

Let slip no sighs; 

Cease, heart, your drumming! 
He is not coming, 

*Lada! ' 

He is not coming. 

Lada oy Lada! 

“Gaze not in wonder, — 

Yonder no rider comes; 

Hark how the kettle-drums 
Mock his hoofs’ thunder; 

Hark to their thudding. 

Pretty breasts budding, — 
Setting the Buddhist bells 
Clanking and banging, — 
Wheels at the hidden wells 
Clinking and clanging! 

{Lada oy Lada!) 

Plough the flower under; 

Tear it asunder! 

“Young eyes 
In swift surprise. 

What terror veils you? 

Clear eyes, 

Who gallops here? 

* The ancient Slavonic Venus. 

212 





THE CRIMSON TIDE 


What wolf assails you? 
What horseman hails you, 
Lada! 

What pleasure pales you? 
Lada ay Lada! 

“Knight who rides boldly. 
May Erlik impale you, — 
Your mother bewail you. 
If you use her coldly! 
Health to the wedding! 

Joy to the bedding! 

Set all the Christian bells 
Swinging and ringing — 
Monks in their stony cells 
Chanting and singing 
( Lada oy Lada!) 

Bud of the rose, 

Gently unclose !” 


Marya, her gemmed fingers bracketed on her hips, the 
last sensuous note still afloat on her lips, turned her 
head so that her rounded chin rested on her bare shoul- 
der ; and looked at Shotwell. He rose, applauding with 
the others, and found a chair for her. 

But when she seated herself, she addressed Ilse on 
the other side of him, leaning so near that he felt the 
warmth of her hair. 

“Who was it wrestled with Loki? Was it Hel, god- 
dess of death? Or was it Thor who wrestled with that 
toothless hag, Thokk?” 

Use explained. 

The conversation became general, vaguely accom- 
panied by Vanya’s drifting improvisations, where he 
still sat at the piano, his lost gaze on Marya. 

Bits of the chatter around him came vaguely to Shot- 
well — the birth-control lady’s placid inclination toward 
213 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


obstetrics; Wardner on concentration, with Palla 
listening, bending forward, brown eyes wide and curious 
and snowy hands framing her face ; Ilse partly turned 
where she was seated, alert, flushed, half smiling at what 
John Estridge, behind her shoulder, was raying to her, 
— some improvised nonsense, of which Jim caught a 
fragment : 

“If he who dwells in Midgard 
With cunning can not floor her. 

What hope that Mistress Westgard 
Will melt if I implore her? 

“And yet I’ve come to Asgard, 

And hope I shall not bore her 
If I tell Mistress Westgard 
How deeply I adore her •” 

Through the hum of conversation and capricious 
laughter, Vanya’s vague music drifted like wind-blown 
thistle-down, and his absent regard never left Marya, 
where she rested among the cushions in low-voiced dia- 
logue with Jim. 

“I had hoped,” she smiled, “that you had perhaps 
remembered me — enough to stop for a word or two some 
day at tea-time.” 

He had had no intention of going; but he said that 
he had meant to and would surely do so, — the while she 
was leisurely recognising the lie as it politely uncoiled. 

“Why won’t you come?” she asked under her breath. 

“I shall certainly ” 

“No; you won’t come.” She seemed amused: “Tell 
me, are you too a concentrationist?” And her beryl- 
green eyes barely flickered toward Palla. Then she 
smiled and laid her hand lightly on her breast: “I, 
on the contrary, am a Diffusionist. It’s merely a 
214 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


matter of how God grinds the lens. But prisms colour 
one’s dull white life so gaily !” 

“And split it up,” he said, smiling. 

“And disintegrate it,” she nodded, “ — so exqui- 
sitely.” 

“Into rainbows.” 

“You do not believe that there is hidden gold there?” 
And, looking at him, she let one hand rest lightly 
against her hair. 

“Yes, I believe it,” he said, laughing at her en- 
chanting effrontery. “But, Marya, when the rainbow 
goes a-glimmering, the same old grey world is there 
again. It’s always there ” 

“Awaiting another rainbow!” 

“But storms come first.” 

“Is another rainbow not worth the storm?” 

“Is it?” he demanded. 

“Shall we try?” she asked carelessly. 

He did not answer. But presently he looked across 
at Yanya. 

“Who is there who would not love him?” said Marya 
serenely. 

“I was wondering.” 

“No need. All love Vanya. I, also.” 

“I thought so.” 

“Think so. For it is quite true. . . . Will you 

come to tea alone with me some afternoon?” 

He looked at her ; reddened. Marya turned her head 
leisurely, to hear what Palla was saying to her. At the 
sound of her voice, Jim turned also, and saw Palla 
bending near his shoulder. 

“Pm sorry,” she was saying to Marya, “but Questa 
Terrett desires to know Jim ” 

“Is it any wonder,” said Marya, “that women should 

215 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


desire to know him ? Alas ! — ” She laughed and 

turned to Use, who seated herself as Jim stood up. 

Palla, her finger-tips resting lightly on his arm, 
said laughingly: “Our youthful and tawny enchantress 
seemed unusually busy with you this evening. Has 
she turned 3m u into anything very disturbing?” 

“Would you care?” 

“Of course.” 

“Enough to come to earth and interfere?” 

“Good heavens, has it gone as far as that!” she 
whispered in gay consternation. “And could I really 
arrive in time, though breathless?” 

He laughed: “You don’t need to stir from your 
niche, sweetness. I swept your altar once. I’ll keep 
the fire clean.” 

“You adorable thing — ” He felt the faintest pres- 
sure of her fingers ; then he heard himself being pre- 
sented to Questa Terrett. 

The frail and somewhat mortuary beauty of this 
slim poetess, with her full-lipped profile of an Egyptian 
temple-girl and her pale, still eyes, left him guessing 
— rather guiltily — recollecting his recent but meaning- 
less disrespect. 

“I don’t know,” she said, “just why you are here. 
Soldiers are no novelty. Is somebody in love with you?” 

It was a toss-up whether he’d wither or laugh, but 
the demon of gaiety won out. 

She also smiled. 

“I asked you,” she added, “because you seem to be 
quite featureless.” 

“Oh, I’ve a few eyes and noses and that sort ” 

“I mean psychologically accentless.” 

“Just plain man?” 

“Yes. That is all you are, isn’t it?” 

216 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


“I’m afraid it is,” he admitted, quite as much amused 
as she appeared to be. 

“I see. Some crazy girl here is enamoured of you. 
Otherwise, you scarcely belong among modern intellec- 
tuals, you know.” 

At that he laughed outright. 

She said: “You really are delightful. You’re just a 
plain, fighting male, aren’t you?” 

“Well, I haven’t done much fighting ” 

“Unimaginative, too! You could have led yourself 
to believe you had done a lot,” she pointed out. “And 
maybe you could have interested me.” 

“I’m sorry. But suppose you try to interest me?” 

“Don’t I? I’ve tried.” 

“Do your best,” he encouraged her cheerfully. “You 
never can be sure I’m not listening.” 

At that she laughed: “You nice youth,” she said, 
“if you’d talk that way to your sweetheart she’d sit 
up and listen. . . . Which I’m afraid she doesn’t, 

so far.” 

He felt himself flushing, but he refused to wince 
under her amused analysis. 

“You’ve simply got to have imagination, you know,” 
she insisted. “Otherwise, you don’t get anywhere at 
all. Have you read my smears?” 

“Smears ?” 

“Bacteriologists take a smear of something on a 
glass slide and slip it under a microscope. My poems 
are like that. The words are the bacteria. Few can 
identify them.” 

“Are you serious?” 

“Entirely.” 

He maintained his gravity: “Would you be kind 

217 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


enough to take a smear and let me look?” he inquired 
politely. 

“Certainly: the experiment is called ‘Unpremedi- 
tation.’ ” 

She dropped one thin and silken knee over the other 
and crossed her hands on it as she recited her poem. 

“UNPREMEDITATION.” 

“In the tube. 

Several, 

With intonation. 

Red, red, red. 

A square fabric 
Once white 
With intention. 

Soiled, soiled, soiled. 

Six hundred hundred million 
Swarm like vermin, 

Without intention. 

Redder. Redder. 

Drip, drip, drip. 

A goes west, 

B goes east, 

C goes north, 

Pink, pink, pink. 

Two white squares. 

And a coat-sleeve. 

Without intention, 

Intonations. 

Pinker. Redder. 

Six hundred hundred million. 

Billions. Trillions. 

A week. Two weeks. 

Otherwise ? 

Eternity.” 

Jim’s features had become a trifle glassy. “You do 
skip a few words,” he said, “don’t you?” 

218 



THE CRIMSON TIDE 


“Words are animalculse. Some skip, some gyrate, 
some sub-divide.” 

He put a brave face on the matter: “If you’re not 
really guying me,” he ventured, “would you tell me 
a little about your poem?” 

“Why, yes,” she replied amiably. “To put it re- 
dundantly, then, I have sketched in my poem a man 
in the subw r ay, with influenza, which infects others in 
his vicinity.” 

She rose, smiled, and sauntered off, leaving him 
utterly unable to determine whether or not he had 
been outrageously imposed upon. Palla rescued him, 
and he went with her, a little wild-eyed, downstairs to 
the nearly empty and carpetless drawing-room, where 
a music box was playing and people were already 
dancing. 

Toward midnight, Marya, passing Jim on her way 
to the front door, leaned wide from Vanya’s arm: 

“Let us at least discuss my rainbow theory,” she 
said, laughing, and her face a shade too close to his ; 
and continued on, still clinging to the sleeve of Vanya’s 
fur-lined coat. 

Ilse was the last to leave, with Estridge waiting 
behind her to hold her wrap. 

She came up to Palla, took both her hands in an 
odd, subdued, wistful way. 

After a moment she kissed her, and, close to her car : 
“Wait, darling.” 

Palla did not understand. 

Ilse said: “I mean — wait before you ever take any 
step to — to prove any theory — or belief.” 

Still Palla did not comprehend. 

“With — Jim,” said Ilse in a low voice. 

“Oh. Why, of course. But — it could never happen.” 

219 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


“Why?” 

Palla said honestly : “One reason is because he 
wouldn’t anyway.” 

“You must not be certain.” 

“I am. I’m absolutely certain.” 

Use gazed at her, then laughed and pressed her hand. 
“Are you cold?” asked Palla. 

“No.” 

“I thought I felt you shiver, dearest.” 

Ilse flushed and held out her arms for the sleeves 
of her fur coat, which Estridge was holding. 

They went away together, leaving Palla alone with 
Shotwell, among the fading flowers. 


CHAPTER XV 


S O,” said Puma, “you are quite convinced he has 
much wealth. Yes?” 

“You betcha,” replied Elmer Skidder. “That 
pious guy has got all kinds of it. Why, Alonzo D. 
Pawling can buy you and me like we were two subway 
tickets and then forget which pocket he put us in.” 
“He also is a sport? Yes?” 

“On the quiet. Oh, I got his number some years ago. 
Ran into him once in New York, where you used to 
knock three times and ring twice before they slid the 
panel on you.” 

“A bank president?” 

“Did you ever know one that didn’t?” grinned 
Skidder, inserting pearl studs in his shirt. 

“It is very bad — for a shake-down,” mused Puma, 
smoothing his glossy top hat with one of Skidder’s 
silk mufflers. 

“Aw, you can’t scare Alonzo D. Pawling. Say, 
Angy, what dames have you commandeered?” 

“I ask Barclay and West. Also, they got another — 
Vann a Brown.” 

“Pictures ?” 

“No, she has a friend.” 

Skidder continued to attire himself in an over- 
braided evening dress ; Puma, seated behind him, gazed 
absently at his partner’s features reflected in the look- 
ing glass. 


221 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


“A theatre on Broadway,” he mused. “You say he 
has seemed interested, Elmer?” 

“He didn’t run away screaming.” 

“How did he behave?” 

“Well, it’s hard to size up Alonzo D. Pawling. He’s 
a fly guy, Angy. What a man says at a little supper 
for four, with a peach pulling his Depews and a good 
looker sticking gardenias in his buttonhole, ain’t what 
he’s likely to say next day in your office.” 

“You have accompany him to Broadway and you 
have shown him the parcel?” 

“I sure did.” 

“You explain how we can not lose out? You mention 
the option?” 

Skidder cast aside his white tie and tried another, 
constructed on the butterfly plan. 

“I put the whole thing up to him,” he said. “No 
use stalling with Alonzo D. Pawling. I know him too 
well. So I let out straight from the shoulder, and he 
knows the scheme we’ve got in mind and he knows we 
want his money in it. That’s how it stands to-night.” 

Puma nodded and softly joined his over-manicured 
finger-tips : 

“We give him a good time,” he said. “We give him 
a little dinner like there never was in New York. Yes?” 

“You betcha.” 

“Barclay is a devil. You think she please him?” 

“Alonzo D. Pawling is some bird himself,” remarked 
Skidder, picking up his hat and turning to Puma, 
who rose with lithe briskness, put on his hat, and began 
to pull at his white gloves. 

They went down to the street, where Puma’s car was 
waiting. 

“I stop at the office a moment,” he said, as they en- 

222 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


tered the limousine. “ You need not get out, Elmer.” 

At the studio he descended, saying to Skidder that 
he’d be back in a moment. 

But it was very evident when he entered his office 
that he had not expected to find Max Sondheim there ; 
and he hesitated on the threshold* his white-gloved 
hand still on the door-knob. 

“Come in, Puma ; I want to see you,” growled Sond- 
heim, retaining his seat but pocketing The Call , which 
he had been reading. 

“To-morrow,” said Puma coolly; “I have no 
time ” 

“No, now!” interrupted Sondheim. 

They eyed each other for a moment in silence, then 
Puma shrugged: 

“Very well,” he said. “But be quick, if you 
please ” 

“Look here,” interrupted the other in a menacing 
voice, “you’re getting too damned independent, telling 
me to be quick! I had a date with you here at five 
o’clock. You thought you wouldn’t keep it and you 
left at four-thirty. But I stuck around till you ’phoned 
in that you’d stop here to get some money. It’s seven 
o’clock now, and I’ve waited for you. And I guess 
you’ve got enough time to hear what I’m going to 
say.” 

Puma looked at him without any expression at all 
on his sanguine features. “Go on,” he said. 

“What I got to say to you is this,” began Sond- 
heim. “There’s a kind of a club that uses our hall on 
off nights. It’s run by women.” 

Puma waited. 

“They meet this evening at eight in our hall, — your 
hall, if you choose.” 


223 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


Puma nodded carelessly. 

“All right. Put them out.” 

“What?” 

“Put ’em out !” growled Sondheim. “We don’t want 
them there to-night or any other night.” 

“You ask me to evict respectable people who pay me 
rent' ?” 

“I don’t ask you; I tell you.” 

Puma turned a deep red: “And whose hall do you 
think it is?” he demanded in a silky voice. 

“Yours. That’s why I tell you to get rid of that 
bunch and their Combat Club.” 

“Why have you ask me such a ” 

“Because they’re fighting us and you know it. That’s 
a good enough reason.” 

“I shall not do so,” said Puma, moistening his lips 
with his tongue. 

“Oh, I guess you will when you think it over,” sneered 
Sondheim, getting up from his chair and stuffing his 
newspaper into his overcoat pocket. He crossed the 
floor and shot an ugly glance at Puma en passant . 
Then he jerked open the door and went out briskly. 

Puma walked into the inner waiting room, where a 
telephone operator sat reading a book. 

“Where’s McCabe?” he asked. 

“Here he comes now, Governor.” 

The office manager sauntered up, eating a slice of 
apple pie, and Puma stepped forward to meet him. 

“For what reason have you permit Mr. Sondheim 
to wait in my office?” he demanded. 

“He said you told him to go in and wait there.” 

“He is a liar! Hereafter he shall wait out here. 
You understand, McCabe?” 

224 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


“Yes, sir. You’re always out when he calls, ain’t 
you ?” 

Puma meditated a few moments : “No. When he calls 
you shall let me know. Then I decide. But he shall 
not wait in my office.” 

“Very good, sir.” And, as Puma turned to go : “The 
police was here again this evening, sir.” 

“Why?” 

“They heard of the row in the hall last night.” 

“What did you tell them,?” 

“Oh, the muss was all swept up — windows fixed and 
the busted benches in the furnace, so I said there had 
been no row as far as I knew, and I let ’em go in and 
nose around.” 

“Next time,” said Puma, “you shall say to them that 
there was a very bad riot.” 

“Sir?” 

“A big fight,” continued Puma. “And if there is 
only a little damage you shall make more. And you 
shall show it to the police.” 

“I get you, Governor. I’ll stage it right; don’t 
worry.” 

“Yes, you shall stage it like there never was in 
all of France any ruins like my hall ! And afterward,” 
he said, half to himself, “we shall see what we shall 
see.” 

He went back to his office, took a packet of hundred 
dollar bills from the safe, and walked slowly out to 
where the limousine awaited him. 

“Say, what the hell — ” began Skidder impatiently; 
but Puma leaped lightly to his seat and pulled the fur 
robe over his knees. 

“Now,” he said, in excellent humour, “we pick up Mr. 
Pawling at the Astor.” 


225 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


“Where are the ladies?” 

“They join us, Hotel Rajah. It will be, I trust, 
an amusing evening.” 

About midnight, dinner merged noisily into supper 
in the private dining room reserved by Mr. Puma for 
himself and guests at the new Hotel Rajah. 

There had been intermittent dancing during the 
dinner, but now the negro jazz specialists had been dis- 
missed with emoluments, and a music-box substituted; 
and supper promised to become even a more lively rep- 
etition of the earlier banquet. 

Puma was superb — a large, heavy man, he danced 
as lightly as any ballerina ; and he and Tessa Barclay 
did a Paraguayan dance together, with a leisurely and 
agile perfection of execution that elicited uproarious 
demonstrations from the others. 

Not a whit winded, Puma resumed his seat at table, 
laughing as Mr. Pawling insisted on shaking hands 
with him. 

“You are far too kind to my poor accomplishments,” 
he said in deprecation. “It was not at all difficult, that 
Paraguayan dance.” 

“It was art!” insisted Mr. Pawling, his watery eyes 
brimming with emotion. And he pressed the pretty 
waist of Tessa Barclay. 

“Art,” rejoined Puma, laying a jewelled hand on his 
shirt-front, “is an ecstatic outburst from within, like 
the song of the bird. Art is simple ; art is not difficult. 
Where effort begins, art ends. Where self-expression 
becomes a labour, art already has perished!” 

He thumped his shirt-front with an impassioned and 
highly-coloured fist. 

“What is art?” he cried, “if it be not pleasure? And 

226 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


pleasure ceases where effort begins. For me, I am all 
heart, all art, like there never was in all the history 
of the Renaissance. As expresses itself the little inno- 
cent bird in song, so in my pictures I express myself. 
It is no effort. It is in me. It is born. Behold! Art 
has given birth to Beauty!” 

“And the result,” added Skidder, “is a ne plus ultra 
par excellence which gathers in the popular coin every 
time. And say, if we had a Broadway theatre to run 
our stuff, and Angelo Puma to soopervise the combine 
— oh boy ! — ” He smote Mr. Pawling upon his bony 
back and dug him in the ribs with his thumb. 

Mr. Pawling’s mouth sagged and his melancholy 
eyes shifted around him from Tessa Barclay — who was 
now attempting to balance a bon-bon on her nose and 
catch it between her lips — to Vanna Brown, teaching 
Miss West to turn cart-wheels on one hand. 

Evidently Art had its consolations; and the single 
track genius who lived for art alone got a bonus, too. 
Also, what General Sherman once said about Art 
seemed to be only too obvious. 

A detail, however, worried Mr. Pawling. Financially, 
he had always been afraid of Jews. And the nose of 
Angelo Puma made him uneasy every time he looked 
at it. 

But an inch is a mile on a man’s nose; and his 
own was bigger, yet entirely Yankee; so he had about 
concluded that there was no racial occasion for finan- 
cial alarm. 

What he should have known was that no Jew can 
compete with a Connecticut Yankee; but that any 
half-cast Armenian is master of both. Especially 
when bom in Mexico of a Levantine father. 

227 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


Now, in spite of Angelo Puma’s agile gaiety and 
exotic exuberances, his brain remained entirely occu- 
pied with two matters. One of these concerned the 
possibility of interesting Mr. Pawling in a plot of 
ground on Broadway, now defaced by several tax- 
payers. 

The other matter which fitfully preoccupied him was 
his unpleasant and unintentional interview with Sond- 
heim. 

For it had come to a point, now, that the perpetual 
bullying of former associates was worrying Mr. Puma 
a great deal in his steadily increasing prosperity. 

The war was over. Besides, long ago he had pru- 
dently broken both his pledged word and his dangerous 
connections in Mexico, and had started what he be- 
lieved to be a safe and legitimate career in New York, 
entirely free from perilous affiliations. 

Government had investigated his activities ; Govern- 
ment had found nothing for which to order his intern- 
ment as an enemy alien. 

It had been a close call. Puma realised that. But 
he had also realised that there was no law in Mexico 
ten miles outside of Mexico City ; — no longer any Ger- 
man power there, either; — when he severed all connec- 
tions with those who had sent him into the United 
States camouflaged as a cinema promoter, and under 
instruction to do all the damage he could to everything 
American. 

But he had not counted on renewing his acquaint- 
ance with Karl Kastner and Max Sondheim in New 
York. Nor did they reveal themselves to him until he 
had become too prosperous to denounce them and risk 
investigation and internment under the counter-accu- 
sations with which they coolly threatened him. 

228 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


So, from the early days of his prosperity in New 
York, it had been necessary for him to come to an 
agreement with Sondheim and Kastner. And the more 
his prosperity increased the less he dared to resent 
their petty tyranny and blackmail, because, whether or 
not they might suffer under his public accusations, it 
was very certain that internment, if not imprisonment 
for a term of years, would be the fate reserved for him- 
self. And that, of course, meant ruin. 

So, although Puma ate and drank and danced with 
apparent abandon, and flashed his dazzling smile over 
everybody and everything, his mind, when not occupied 
by Alonzo D. Pawling, was bothered by surmises con- 
cerning Sondheim. And also, at intervals, he thought 
of Palla Dumont and the Combat Club, and he won- 
dered uneasily whether Sondheim’s agents had at- 
tempted to make any trouble at the meeting in his hall 
that evening. 

There had been some trouble. The meeting being 
a public one, under municipal permission, Kastner had 
sent a number of his Bolshevik followers there, in- 
structed to make what mischief they could. They were 
recruited from all sects of the Reds, including the Ameri- 
can Bolsheviki, known commonly as the I. W. W. Also, 
among them were scattered a few pacifists, hun-sym- 
pathisers, conscientious objectors and other birds of 
analogous plumage, quite ready for interruptions and 
debate. 

Palla presided, always a trifle frightened to find 
herself facing any audience, but ashamed to avoid the 
delegated responsibility. 

Among others on the platform around her were Use 
and Marya and Questa Terrett and the birth-control 
229 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


lady — Miss Thane — neat and placid and precise as 
usual, and wearing long-distance spectacles for a more 
minute inspection of the audience. 

Palla opened the proceedings in a voice which was 
clear, and always became steadier under heckling. 

Her favourite proposition — the Law of Love and Ser- 
vice — she offered with such winning candour that the 
interruption of derisive laughter, prepared by several 
of Kastner’s friends, was postponed ; and Terry Hogan, 
I. W. W., said to Jerry Smith, I. W. W. : 

“God love her, she’s but a baby. Lave her chatter.” 

However, a conscientious objector got up and asked 
her whether she considered that the American army 
abroad had conformed to her Law of Love and Service ; 
and when she answered emphatically that every soldier 
in the United States army was fulfilling to the highest 
degree his obligations to that law, both pacifists and 
conscientious objectors dissented noisily, and a student 
from Columbia College got up and began to harangue 
the audience. 

Order was finally obtained: Palla added a word or 
two and retired; and Use Westgard came forward. 

Somebody in the audience called out: “Say, just be- 
cause you’re a good-looker it don’t mean you got a 
brain !” 

Use threw back her golden head and her healthy 
laughter rang uncontrolled. 

“Comrade,” she said, “we all have to do the best we 
can with what brain we have, don’t we?” 

“Sure !” came from her grinning heckler, who seemed 
quite won over by her good humour. 

So, an armistice established, Use plunged vigorously 
into her theme: 

“Let me tell you something which you all know in 

230 



“you shall never see bolshevism triumphant here” 




THE CRIMSON TIDE 


your hearts : any class revolution based on violence and 
terrorism is doomed to failure.” 

“Don’t be too sure of that !” shouted a man. 

“I am sure of it. And you will never see any reign 
of terror in America.” 

“But you may see Bolshevism here — Bolshevist prop- 
aganda — Bolshevist ideas penetrating. You may see 
these ideas accepted by Labor. You may see strikes 
— the most senseless and obsolete weapon ever wielded 
by thinking men ; you may see panics, tie-ups, stagna- 
tion, misery. But you never shall see Bolshevism trium- 
phant here, or permanently triumphant anywhere. 

“Because Bolshevism is autocracy!” 

“The hell it is !” yelled an I. W. W. 

“Yes,” said Ilse cheerfully, “as you have said it 
is hell. And hell is an end, not a means, not a remedy. 

“Because it is the negation of all socialism ; the death 
of civilisation. And civilisation has an immortal des- 
tiny; and that destiny is socialism!” 

A man interrupted, but she asked him so sweetly for 
a few moments more that he re-seated himself. 

“Comrades,” she said, “I know something about Bol- 
shevism and revolution. I was a soldier of Russia. 
I carried a rifle and full pack. I was part of what is 
history. And I learned to be tolerant in the trenches ; 
and I learned to love this unhappy human race of ours. 
And I learned what is Bolshevism. 

“It is one of many protests against the exploitation 
of men by men. It is one of the many reactions against 
intolerable wrong. It is not a policy ; it is an outburst 
against injustice; against the stupidity of present con- 
ditions, where the few monopolise the wealth created by 
the many ; and the many remain poor. 

“And Bolshevism is the remedy proposed — the vio- 

231 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


lent superimposition of a brand new autocracy upon 
the ruins of the old! 

“It does not work. It never can work, because it 
imposes the will of one class upon all other classes. 
It excludes all parties excepting its own from govern- 
ment. It is, therefore, not democratic. It is a tyranny, 
imposing upon capital and labour alike its will. 

“And I tell you that Labour has just won the great- 
est of all wars. Do you suppose Labour will endure the 
autocracy of the Bolsheviki? The time is here when 
a more decent division is going to be made between 
the employer and the labourer. 

“I don’t care what sort of production it may be, 
the producer is going to receive a much larger share; 
the employer a much smaller. And the producer is 
going to enjoy a better standard of living, opportuni- 
ties for leisure and self-cultivation ; and the three spec- 
tres that haunt him from childhood to grave — lack of 
money to make a beginning; fear for a family left on 
its own resources by his death; terror of poverty in 
old age — shall vanish. 

“Against these three evil ghosts that haunt his bed- 
side when the long day is done, there are going to be 
guarantees. Because those who won for us this right- 
eous war, whether abroad or at home, are going to 
have something to say about it. 

“And it will be they, not the Bolsheviki — it will 
be labourer and employer, not incendiary and assassin, 
who shall determine what is to be the policy of this 
Republic toward those to whom it owes its salvation !” 

A man stood up waving his arms: “All right! All 
right! The question is whether the sort of govern- 
ment we have is worth saving. You talk very flip 
about the Bolsheviki, but I’ll tell you they’ll run this 
232 * 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


country yet, and every other too, and run ’em to suit 
themselves ! It’s- our turn ; you’ve had your inning. 
Now, you’ll get a dose of what you hand to us if we 
have to ram it down with a gun barrel !” 

There was wild cheering from Kastner’s men scattered 
about the hall ; cries of “That’s the stuff ! Take away 
their dough ! Kick ’em out of their Fifth Avenue 
castles and set ’em to digging subways!” 

Ilse said calmly : “Thank you vei*y much for proving 
my contention for all these people who have been so 
kind as to listen to me. 

“I said to you that Bolshevism is merely a new and 
more immoral autocracy which wishes to confiscate all 
property, annihilate all culture and set up in the public 
places a new god — the god of Ignorance ! 

“You have been good enough to corroborate me. And 
I and my audience now know that Bolshevism is on its 
way to America, and that its agents *are already here. 

“It is in view of such a danger that this Combat Club 
has been organised. And it was time to organise it. 

“It is evident, too, that the newspapers agree with 
us. Let us read you what one of them has to say: 

“ ‘We fully realise the atrocity of the Bolshevik prop- 
aganda, which is really the doctrine of communism and 
anarchy. We realise the perilous ferment which en- 
dangers civilisation. But in the countries which have 
held fast to moral standards during the war we believe 
the factors of safety are sufficiently great, the forces of 
sanity are far stronger than those of chaos ’ ” 

Here, those whose role it was to interrupt with de- 
risive laughter, broke out at a preconcerted signal. 
But Ilse read on : 


233 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


“ ‘In a word, as a mere matter of self-interest and 
common sense, we can only see the people, as a whole, 
in any country, as opposed to anarchy in any form. In 
our own land, even granted that there are a hundred 
thousand “red” agitators, or say a quarter of a million 
— and we have no real belief that this is so — what are 
these in a population of one hundred and five millions? 
Are the ninety and nine sane, moral, law abiding men 
and women going to allow themselves to be stampeded 
into ruin by a handful of criminals and lunatics? 

“ ‘We do not for a moment believe it. These agitators 
and incendiaries have a sort of maniacal impetus that 
fills the air with dust and noise and alarms the credu- 
lous. Perhaps it may be wise to counteract this with a 
little quiet promotion of ideas of safety and prosperity, 
based on order and law. It may be well to calm the 
nerves of the timorous and it can do no harm to set in 
motion a counter wave of horror and repulsion against 
those who are planning to lead the world back to con- 
ditions of tribal savagery. Educational work is always 
beneficent. Let us have much of that but no panic. 
The power of truth and reason is in calm confidence.’” 

And now a bushy-headed man got on his feet and 
levelled his fore-finger at Ilse: “Take shame for your- 
selluf!” he shouted. “I know you! You fought mit 
Korniloff! You took orders from Kerensky, from aris- 
tocrats, from cadets !” 

Ilse said pleasantly. “I fought for Russia, my friend. 
And when the robbers and despoilers of Russia became 
the stronger, I took a vacation.” 

Some people laughed, but a harsh voice cried: “We 
know what you did. You rescued the friend of the 
234 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


Romanoffs — that Carmelite nun up there on the plat- 
form behind you, who calls herself Miss Dumont!” 

And from the other side of the hall another man 
bawled out: “You and the White Nun have done enough 
mischief. And you and your club had better get out 
of here while the going is good !” 

Estridge, who was standing in the rear of the hall 
with Shotwell, came down along the aisle. Jim followed. 

“Who said that?” he demanded, scanning the faces 
on that side while Shotwell looked among the seats 
beyond. 

Nobody said anything, for John Estridge stood over 
six feet and Jim looked physically very fit. 

Estridge, standing in the aisle, said in his cool, pene- 
trating voice: 

“This club is a forum for discussion. All are free 
to argue any point. Only swine would threaten vio- 
lence. 

“Now go on and argue. Say what you like. But 
the next man who threatens these ladies or this club 
with violence will have to leave the hall.” 

“Who’ll put him out?” piped an unidentified voice. 

Then the two young men laughed; and their mirth 
was not reassuring to the violently inclined. 

There were disturbances during the evening, but no 
violence, and only a few threats — those that made them 
remaining in prudent incognito. 

Miss Thane made a serene, precise and perfectly 
logical address upon birth control. 

Somebody yelled that the millionaires didn’t have to 
resort to it, being already sufficiently sterile to assure 
the dwindling of their class. 

A woman rose and said she had always done what 

235 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


she pleased in the matter, law or no law, but that if it 
were true the Bolsheviki in America were but a quar- 
ter of a million to a hundred million of the bourgeoisie, 
then it was time to breed and breed to the limit. 

“And let the kids starve?” cried another woman — a 
mere girl. “That isn’t the way. The way to do is to 
even things with a hundred million hand grenades !” 

Instantly the place was in an uproar; but Palla 
came forward and said that the meeting was over, and 
Estridge and Shotwell and two policemen kept the 
aisles fairly clear while the wrangling audience made 
their way to the street. 

“Aw, it’s all lollipop!” said a man. “What d’ yeh 
expect from a bunch of women?” 

“The Red Flag Club is better,” rejoined another. 
“Say, bo ! There’s somethin’ doin’ when Sondheim 
hands it out!” 

Use went away with Estridge. Palla came along 
among the other women, and turned aside to offer her 
hand to Jim. 

“Did you expect to take me home?” she asked de- 
murely. 

“Didn’t you expect me to?” he inquired uneasily. 

“I? Why should I?” She slipped her arm into his 
with a little nestling gesture. “And it’s a very odd 
thing, Jim, that they left the chafing dish on the table. 
And that before she went to bed my waitress laid 
covers for two.” 


CHAPTER XVI 


A RE you worried about this Dumont girl?” asked 
Shotwell Senior abruptly. 

His wife did not look up from her book. 
After an interval: 

“Yes,” she said, “I am.” 

Her husband watched her over the top of his news- 
paper. 

“I can’t believe there’s anything in it,” he said. 
“But it’s a shame that Jim should worry you so.” 

“He doesn’t mean to.” 

“Probably he doesn’t, but what’s the difference? 
You’re unhappy and he’s the reason of it. And it isn’t 
as though he were a cub any longer, either. He’s old 
enough to know what he’s about. He’s no Willy 
Baxter.” 

“That is what makes me anxious,” said Helen Shot- 
well. “Do you know, dear, that he hasn’t dined here 
once this week, yet he seems to go nowhere else — nowhere 
except to her.” 

“What sort of woman is she?” he demanded, wiping 
his eye-glasses as though preparing to take a long- 
distance look at Palla. 

“I know her only at the Red Cross.” 

“Well, is she at all common?” 

“No. . . . That is why it is difficult for me to 

talk to Jim about her. There’s nothing of that sort 
to criticise.” 


237 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


“No social objections to the girl?” 

“None. She’s an unusual girl.” 

“Attractive ?” 

“Unfortunately.” 

“Well, then ” 

“Oh, James, I want him to marry Elorn! And if 
he’s going to make himself conspicuous over this 
Dumont girl, I don’t think I can bear it !” 

“What is the objection to the girl, Helen?” he asked, 
flinging his paper onto a table and drawing nearer 
the fire. 

“She isn’t at all our kind, James ” 

“But you just said ” 

“I don’t mean socially. And still, as far as that 
goes, she seems to care nothing whatever for position 
or social duties or obligations.” 

“That’s not so unusual in these days,” he remarked. 
“Lots of nice girls are fed up on the social aspects of 
life.” 

“Well, for example, she has not made the slightest 
effort to know anybody worth knowing. Janet Speed- 
well left cards and then asked her to dinner, and re- 
ceived an amiable regret for her pains. No girl can 
afford to decline invitations from Janet, even if her 
excuse is a club meeting. 

“And two or three other women at the Red Cross 
have asked her to lunch at' the Colony Club, and have 
made advances to her on Leila Vance’s account, but she 
hasn’t responded. Now, you know a girl isn’t going 
to get on by politely ignoring the advances of such 
women. But she doesn’t even appear to be aware of 
their importance.” 

“Why don’t you ask her to something?” suggested 
her husband. 


238 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


“I did,” she said, a little sharply. “X asked her and 
Leila Vance to dine with us. I intended to ask Elorn, 
too, and let Jim realise the difference if he isn’t already 
too blind to see.” 

“Did she decline?” 

“She did,” said Helen curtly. 

“Why?” 

“It happened that she had asked somebody to dine 
with her that evening. And I have a horrid suspicion 
it was Jim. If it was, she could have postponed it. 
Of course it was a valid excuse, but it annoyed me to 
have her decline. That’s what I tell you, James, she 
has a most disturbing habit of declining overtures 
from everybody — even from ” 

Helen checked herself, looked at her husband with an 
odd smile, in which there was no mirth; then: 

“You probably are not aware of it, dear, but that 
girl has also declined Jim’s overtures.” 

“Jim’s what?” 

“Invitation.” 

“Invitation to do what?” 

“Marry him.” 

Shotwell Senior turned very red. 

“The devil she did! How do you know?” 

“Jim told me.” 

“That she turned him down?” 

“She declined to marry him.” 

Her husband seemed unable to grasp such a fact. 
Never had it occurred to Shotwell Senior that any 
living, human girl could decline such an invitation 
from his only son. 

After a painful silence: “Well,” he said in a per- 
plexed and mortified voice, “she certainly seems to be, 
as you say, a most unusual girl. . . . But — if 

239 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


it’s settled — why do you continue to worry, Helen?” 

“Because Jim is very deeply in love with her. . . . 

And I’m sore at heart.” 

“Hard hit, is he?” 

“Very unhappy.” 

Shotwell Senior reddened again: “He’ll have to face 
it,” he said. . . . “But that girl seems to be a 

fool!” 

“I — wonder.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“A girl may change her mind.” She lifted her head 
and looked with sad humour at her husband, whom she 
also had kept dangling for a while. Then : 

“James, dear, our son is as fine as we think him. 
But he’s just a splendid, wholesome, everyday, unimagi- 
native New York business man. And he’s fallen in 
love with his absolute antithesis. Because this girl is 
all ardent imagination, full of extravagant impulses, 
very lovely to look at, but a perfectly illogical fanatic ! 

“Mrs. Yance has told me all about her. She really 
belongs in some exotic romance, not in New York. She’s 
entirely irresponsible, perfectly unstable. There is in 
her a generous sort of recklessness which is quite likely 
to drive her headlong into any extreme. And what 
sort of mate would such a girl be for a young man 
whose ambition is to make good in the real estate 
business, marry a nice girl, have a pleasant home and 
agreeable children, and otherwise conform to the 
ordinary conventions of civilisation?” 

“I think,” remarked her husband grimly, “that she’d 
keep him guessing.” 

“She would indeed! And that’s not all, James. For 
I’ve got to tell you that' the girl entertains some rather 
weird and dreadful socialistic notions. She talks 
240 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


socialism — a mild variety — from public platforms. She 
admits very frankly that she entertains no respect for 
accepted conventions. And while I have no reason to 
doubt her purity of mind and personal chastity, the 
unpleasant and startling fact remains that she proposes 
that humanity should dispense with the marriage cere- 
mony and discard it and any orthodox religion as 
obsolete superstitions.” 

Her husband stared at her. 

“For heaven’s sake,” he began, then got frightfully 
red in the face once more. “What that girl needs 
is a plain spanking !” he said bluntly. “I’d like to see 
her or any other girl try to come into this family on 
any such ridiculous terms !” 

“She doesn’t seem to want to come in on any terms,” 
said Helen. 

“Then what are you worrying about?” 

“I am worrying about what might happen if she 
ever changed her mind.” 

“But you say she doesn’t believe in marriage!” 

“She doesn’t.” 

“Well, that boy of ours isn’t crazy,” insisted Shot- 
well Senior. 

But his mother remained silent in her deep misgiving 
concerning the sanity of the simpler sex, when mentally 
upset by love. For it seemed very difficult to under- 
stand what to do — if, indeed, there was anything for 
her to do in the matter. 

To express disapproval of Palla to Jim or to the 
girl herself — to show any opposition at all — would, 
she feared, merely defeat its own purpose and alienate 
her son’s confidence. 

The situation was certainly a most disturbing one, 
though not at present perilous. 

241 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


And Helen would not permit herself to believe that 
it could ever really become an impossible situation — 
that this young girl would deliberately slap civilisation 
in the face; or that her only son would add a kick 
to the silly assault and take the ruinous consequences 
of social ostracism. 


The young girl in question was at that moment 
seated before her piano, her charming head uplifted, 
singing in the silvery voice of an immaculate angel, 
to her own accompaniment, the heavenly Mass of Saint 
Hilde: 

“Love me. 

Adorable Mother! 

Mary, 

I worship no other. 

Save me, 

O, graciously save me 
I pray! 

Let my Darkness be turned into Day 
By the Light of Thy Grace 
And Thy Face, 

I pray!” 


She continued the exquisite refrain on the keys for 
a while, then slowly turned to the man beside her. 

“The one Mass I still love,” she murmured absently, 
“ — memories of childhood, I suppose — when the Sisters 
made me sing the solo — I was only ten years old.” 
. . . She shrugged her shoulders: “You know, in 

those days, I was a little devil,” she said seriously. 

He smiled. 

“I really was, Jim, — all over everything and wild 
as a swallow. I led the pack ; Shadow Hill held us in 
242 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


horror. I remember I fought our butcher’s boy once 

— right in the middle of the street ” 

“Why?” 

“He did something to a cat which I couldn’t stand.” 

“Did you whip him?” 

“Oh, Jim, it was horrid. We both were dreadfully 
battered. And the constable caught us both, and I 
shall never, never forget my mother’s face! ” 

She gazed down at the keys of the piano, touched 
them pensively. 

“The very deuce was in me,” she sighed. “Even 
now, unless I’m occupied with all my might, something 
begins — to simmer in me ” 

She turned and looked at him: “ — A sort of en- 
chanted madness that makes me wild to seize the whole 
world and set it right ! — take it into my arms and defend 
it — die for it — or slay it and end its pain.” 

“Too much of an armful,” he said with great gravity. 
“The thing to do is to select an individual and take 
him to your heart.” 

“And slay him?” she inquired gaily. 

“Certainly — like the feminine mantis — if you find 
you don’t like him. Individual suitors must take their 
chances of being either eaten or adored.” 

“Jim, you’re so funny.” 

She swung her stool, rested her elbow on the piano, 
and gazed at him interrogatively, the odd, half-smile 
edging her lips and eyes. And, after a little duetto 
of silence: 

“Do you suppose I shall ever come to care for you 
— imprudently?” she asked. 

“I wouldn’t let you.” 

“How could you help it? And, as far as that goes, 
how could I, if it happened?” 

US 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


“If you ever come to care at all,” he said, “you’ll 
care enough.” 

“That is the trouble with you,” she retorted, “you 
don’t care enough.” 

A slight flush stained his cheek-bones: “Sometimes,” 
he said, “I almost wish I cared less. And that would 
be what you call enough.” 

Colour came into her face, too: 

“Do you know, Jim, I really don’t know how much I 
do care for you? It sounds rather silly, doesn’t it?” 

“Do you care more than you did at first?” 

“Yes.” 

“Much more?” 

“I told you I don’t know how much.” 

“Not enough to marry me?” 

“Must we discuss that again?” 

He got up, went out to the hall, pulled a book from 
his overcoat pocket, and returned. 

“Would you care to hear what the greatest American 
says on the subject, Palla?” 

“On the subject of marriage?” 

“No; he takes the marriage for granted. It’s what 
he has to say concerning the obligations involved.” 

“Proceed, dear,” she said, laughingly. 

He read, eliminating what was not necessary to make 
his point: 

“ ‘A race is worthless and contemptible if its men 
cease to work hard and, at need, to fight hard; and if 
its women cease to breed freely. If the best classes do 
not reproduce themselves the nation will, of course, go 
down. 

“ ‘When the ordinary decent man does not under- 
stand that to marry the woman he loves, as early as 
he can, is the most desirable of all goals ; when the 
244 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


ordinary woman does not understand that all other 
forms of life are but makeshift substitutes for the life 
of the wife, the mother of healthy children; then the 
State is rotten at heart. 

“ ‘The woman who shrinks from motherhood is as low 
a creature as a man of the professional pacifist, or 
poltroon, type, who shirks his duty as a soldier. 

“ ‘The only full life for man or woman is led by 
those men and women who together, with hearts both 
gentle and valiant, face lives of love and duty, who see 
their children rise up to call them blessed, and who 
leave behind them their seed to inherit the earth. 

“ ‘No celibate life approaches such a life in useful- 
ness. The mother comes ahead of the nun. 

“ ‘But if the average woman does not marry and 
become the mother of enough healthy children to per- 
mit the increase of the race; and if the average man 
does not marry in times of peace and do his full duty 
in war if need arises, then the race is decadent and 
should be swept aside to make room for a better one. 

“ ‘Only that nation has a future whose sons and 
daughters recognise and obey the primary laws of their 
racial being !’ ” , 

He closed the book and laid it on the piano. 

“Now,” he said, “either we’re really a rotten and 
decadent race, and might as well behave like one, or 
we’re sound and sane.” 

Something unusual in his voice — in the sudden grim 
whiteness of his face — disturbed Palla. 

“I want you to marry me,” he said. “You care for 
no other man. And if you don’t love me enough to 
do it, you’ll learn to afterward.” 

“Jim,” she said gently, and now rather white herself, 

245 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


“that is an outrageous thing to say to me. Don’t you 
realise it?” 

“I’m sorry. But I love you — I need you so that I’m 
fit for nothing else. I can’t keep my mind on my 
work; I can’t think of anybody — anything but you. 
• . . If you didn’t care for me more or less I 

wouldn’t come whining to you. I wouldn’t come now 
until I’d entirely won your heart — except that — if I 
did — and if you refused me marriage and offered the 
other thing — I’d be about through with everything! 
And I’d know damned well that the nation wasn’t worth 
the powder to blow it to hell if such women as you 
betray it!” 

The girl flushed furiously ; but her voice seemed fairly 
under control. 

“Hadn’t you better go, Jim, before you say anything 
more ?” 

“Will you marry me?” 

“No.” 

He stood up very straight, unstirring, for a long 
time, not looking at her. 

Then he said “good-bye,” in a low voice, and went 
out leaving her quite pale again and rather badly 
scared. 

As the lower door closed, she sprang to the landing 
and called his name in a frightened voice that had no 
carrying power. 

Later she telephoned to his several clubs. At eleven 
she called each club again ; and finally telephoned to 
his house. 

At midnight he had not telephoned in reply to the 
messages she had left requesting him to call her. 

Her anxiety had changed to a vague bewilderment. 

246 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


Her dismayed resentment at what he had said to her 
was giving place to a strange and unaccustomed sense 
of loneliness. 

Suddenly an overwhelming desire to be with Ilse 
seized her, and she would have called a taxi and started 
immediately, except for the dread that Jim might tele- 
phone in her absence. 

Yet, she didn’t know what it was that she wanted of 
him, except to protest at his attitude toward her. Such 
a protest was due them both — an appeal in behalf of the 
friendship which meant so much to her — which, she 
had abruptly discovered, meant far more to her than 
she supposed. 

At midnight she telephoned to Use. A sleepy maid 
replied that Miss Westgard had not yet returned. 

So Palla called a taxi, pinned on her hat and strug- 
gled into her fur coat, and, taking her latch-key, 
started for Use’s apartment, feeling need of her in a 
blind sort of way — desiring to listen to her friendly 
voice, touch her, hear her clear, sane laughter. 

A yawning maid admitted her. Miss Westgard had 
dined out with Mr. Estridge, but had not yet returned. 

So Palla, wondering a little, laid aside her coat and 
went into the pretty living room. 

There were books and magazines enough, but after 
a while she gave up trying to read and sat staring 
absently at a photograph of Estridge in uniform, which 
stood on the table at her elbow. 

Across it was an inscription, dated only a few days 
back: “To Ilse from Jack, on the road to Asgard.” 

Then, as she gazed at the man’s handsome features, 
for the first time a vague sense of uneasiness invaded 
her. 

Of a gradually growing comradeship between these 

247 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


two she had been tranquilly aware. And yet, now, it 
surprised her to realise that their comradeship had 
drifted into intimacy. 

Lying back in her armchair, her thoughts hovered 
about these two ; and she went back in her mind to 
recollect something of the beginning of this intimacy; 
— and remembered various little incidents which, at the 
time, seemed of no portent. 

And, reflecting, she recollected now what Use had 
said to her after the last party she had given — and 
which Palla had not understood. 

What had Ilse meant by asking her to “wait”? Wait 
for what? . . . Where was Ilse, now? Why did 

she remain out so late with John Estridge? It was 
after one o’clock. 

Of course they must be dancing somewhere or other. 
There were plenty of dances to go to. 

Palla stirred restlessly in her chair. Evidently Ilse 
had not told her maid that she meant to be out late, 
for the girl seemed to have expected her an hour ago. 

Palla’s increasing restlessness finally drove her to 
the windows, where she pulled aside the shades and 
stood looking out into the silent night. 

The night was cold and clear and very still. Rarely 
a footfarer passed; seldom a car. And the stillness of 
the dark city increased her nervousness. 

New York has rare phases of uncanny silence, wdien, 
for a space, no sound disturbs the weird stillness. 

The clang of trains, the feathery whirr of motors, 
the echo of footsteps, the immense, indefinable breathing 
vibration of the iron monster, drowsing on its rock be- 
tween three rivers and the sea, ceases utterly. And a vast 
stillness reigns, mournful, ominous, unutterably sad. 

Palla looked down into the empty street. The dark 

248 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


chill of it seemed to rise and touch her ; and she shivered 
unconsciously and turned back into the lighted room. 

It was two o’clock. Her eyes were heavy, her heart 
heavier. Why should everything suddenly happen to 
her in that way? Where had Jim gone when he left 
her? And who was it answered the telephone at his 
house when she had called up and asked to speak to him? 
It was a woman’s voice — a maid, no doubt — yet, for 
an instant, she had fancied that the voice resembled 
his mother’s. 

But it couldn’t have been, for Palla had given her 
name, and Mrs. Shotwell would have spoken to her — 
unless — perhaps his mother — disapproved of something 
— of her calling Jim at such an hour. . . . Or of 

something . . . perhaps of their friendship . . . 
of herself, perhaps 

She heard the clock strike and looked across at the 
mantel. 

What was Use doing at half-past two in the. morn- 
ing? Where could she be? 

Palla involuntarily turned her head and looked at 
the photograph. Of course Use was safe with a man 
like John Estridge. . . . That is to say . . . 

Without warning, her face grew hot and the crimson 
tide mounted to the roots of her hair, dyeing throat 
and temples. 

A sort of stunning reaction followed as the tide 
ebbed; she found herself stupidly repeating the word 
“safe,” as though to interpret what it meant. 

Safe? Yes, Ilse was safe. She knew how to take 
care of herself . . . unless . . . 

Again the crimson tide invaded her skin to the 
temples. ... A sudden and haunting fear came 
249 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


creeping after it had ebbed once more, leaving her 
gazing fixedly into space through the tumult of her 
thoughts. And always in dull, unmeaning repetition 
the word “safe” throbbed in her ears. 

Safe? Safe from what? From the creed they both 
professed? From their common belief? From the con- 
sequences of living up to it? 

At the thought, Palla sprang to her feet and stood 
quivering all over, both hands pressed to her throat, 
which was quivering too. 

Where was Ilse? What had happened? Had she 
suddenly come face to face with that creed of theirs 
— that shadowy creed which they believed in, perhaps 
because it seemed so unreal! — because the ordeal by 
fire seemed so vague, so far away in that ghostly 
bourne which is called the future, and which remains 
always so inconceivably distant to the young — star-dis- 
tant, remote as inter-stellar dust — aloof as death. 

It was three o’clock. There were velvet-dark smears 
under Falla’s eyes, little colour in her lips. The weight of 
fatigue lay heavily on her young shoulders ; on her mind, 
too, partly stupefied by the violence of her emotions. 

Once she had risen heavily, had gone into the maid’s 
room and had told her to go to bed, adding that she 
herself would wait for Miss Westgard. 

That, already, was nearly an hour ago, and the gilt 
hands of the clock were already creeping around the 
gilded dial toward the half hour. 

As it struck on the clear French bell, a key turned 
in the outside door; then the door closed; and Palla 
rose trembling from her chair as Ilse entered, her 
golden hair in lovely disorder, the evening cloak partly 
flung from her shoulders. 

There was a moment’s utter silence. Then Ilse 
250 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


stepped swiftly forward and took Palla in her arms. 

“My darling! What has happened?” she asked. 
“Why are you here at this hour? You look dreadfully 
ill! 55 

Palla’s head dropped on her breast. 

“What is it?” whispered Ilse. “Darling — darling — 
you did — you did wait — didn’t you?” 

Palla’s voice was scarcely audible: “I don’t know 
what you mean. ... I was only frightened about 
you. . . . I’ve been so unhappy. . . . And Jim 

said — good-bye — and I can’t — find him ” 

“I want you to answer me ! Are you in love with him?” 

“No. ... I don’t — think so ” 

Ilse drew a deep breath 

“It’s all right, then,” she said. 

Then, suddenly, Palla seemed to understand what 
Ilse had meant when she had said, “Wait!” 

And she lifted her head and looked blindly into the 
sea-blue eyes — blindly, desperately, striving to see 
through those clear soul-windows what it might be 
that was looking out at her. 

And, gazing, she knew that she dared not ask Ilse 
where she had been. 

The latter smiled; but her voice was very tender 
when she spoke. 

“We’ll telephone your maid in the morning. You 
must go to bed, Palla.” 

“Alone?” 

Ilse turned carelessly and laid her cloak across a 
chair. There was a second chamber beyond her own. 
She went into it, turned down the bed and called Palla, 
who came slowly after her. 

They kissed each other in silence. Then Ilse went 
back to her own room. 

25 1 


CHAPTER XVII 


IM,” said his mother, “Miss Dumont called you 



on the telephone at an unusual hour last night. 


You had gone to your room, and on the chance 
that you were asleep I did not speak to you.” 

That was all — sufficient explanation to discount any 
reproach from her son incident on his comparing notes 
with the girl in question. Also just enough in her 
action to convey to the girl a polite hint that the Shot- 
well family was not at home to people who telephoned 
at that unconventional hour. 

On his way to business that morning, Jim telephoned 
to Palla, but, learning she was not at home, let the 
matter rest. 

In his sullen and resentful mood he no longer cared 
— or thought he didn’t, which resulted in the same 
thing — the accumulation of increasing bitterness during 
a dull, rainy working day at the office, and a dogged 
determination to keep clear of this woman until effort 
to remain away from her was no longer necessary. 

For the thing was utterly hopeless; he’d had enough. 
And in his bruised heart &nd outraged common sense 
he was boyishly framing an indictment of modern 
womanhood — lumping it all and cursing it out — swear- 
ing internally at the entire enfranchised pack which 
the war had set afoot and had licensed to swarm all 
over everything and raise hell with the ancient and 
established order of things. 


252 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


The stormy dark came early; and in this frame of 
mind when he left the office he sulkily avoided the club. 

He very rarely drank anything; but, not knowing 
what to do, he drifted into the Biltmore bar. 

He met a man or two he knew, but declined all sug- 
gestions for the evening, turned up his overcoat collar, 
and started through the hotel toward the northern exit. 

And met Marya Lanois face to face. 

She was coming from the tea-room with two or three 
other people, but turned immediately on seeing him 
and came toward him with hand extended. 

“Dear me,” she said, “you look very wet. And you 
don’t look particularly well. Have you arrived all 
alone for tea?” 

“I had my tea in the bar,” he said. “How are you, 
Marya? — but I musn’t detain you — ” he glanced at 
the distant group of people who seemed to be awaiting 
her. 

“You are not detaining me,” she said sweetly. 

“Your people seem to be waiting ” 

“They may go to the deuce. Are you quite alone?” 

“I— yes ” 

“Shall we have tea together?” 

He laughed. “But you’ve had yours ” 

“Well, you know there are other things that one 
sometimes drinks.” 

There seemed no way out of it. They went into the 
tea-room together and seated themselves. 

“How is Vanya?” he inquired. 

“Vanya gives a concert to-night in Baltimore.” 

“And you didn’t go !” 

“No. It was rainy. Besides, I hear Vanya play 
when I desire to hear him.” 

Their order was served. 

253 


THE C HIM SON TIDE 


“So you wouldn’t go to Baltimore,” said Jim smil- 
ingly. “It strikes me, Marya, that you can be a cold- 
blooded girl when you wish to be.” 

“After all, what do you know about me ?” 

He laughed: “Oh, I don’t mean that I’ve got your 
number ” 

“No. Because I have many numbers. I am a com- 
plicated combination,” she added, smiling ; “ — yet after 
all, a combination only. And quite simple when one 
discovers the key to me.” 

“I think I know what it is,” he said. 

“What is it?” 

“Mischief.” 

They laughed. Marya, particular^, was intensely 
amused. She was extremely fetching in her bicorne 
toque and narrow gown of light turquoise, and her 
golden beaver scarf and muff. 

“Mischief,” she repeated. “I should say not. There 
seems to be already sufficient mischief loose in the world, 
with the red tide rising everywhere — in Russia, in Ger- 
many, Austria, Italy, England — yes, and here also the 
crimson tide of Bolshevism begins to move. 

Tell me ; you are coming to the club to-morrow evening, 
I hope.” 

“No.” 

“Oh. Why?” 

“No,” he repeated, almost sullenly. “I’ve had enough 
of queerness for a while ” 

“Jim! Do you dare include me?” 

He had to laugh at her pretence of fury: “No, 
Marya, you’re just a pretty mischief-maker, I sup- 
pose ” 

“Then what do you mean by ‘queerness’? Don’t 
you think it’s sensible to combat Bolshevism and fight 
254 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


it with argument and debate on its own selected camp- 
ing ground? Don’t you think it is high time somebody 
faced this crimson tide — that somebody started to build 
a dyke against this threatened inundation ?” 

“The best dykes have machine guns behind them, not 
orators,” he said bluntly. 

“My friend, I have seen that, also. And to what 
| have machine guns led us in Petrograd, in Moscow, in 
Poland, Finland, Courland — ” She shrugged her 

pretty shoulders. “No. I have seen enough blood.” : 

He said: “I have seen a little myself.” 

“Yes, I know. But a soldier is always a soldier, as 
a hound is always a hound. The blood of the quarry 
is what their instinct follows. Your goal is death; we 
only seek to tame.” 

“The proper way to check Bolshevism in America is 
to police the country properly, and kick out the out- 
rageous gang of domestic Bolsheviki who have exploited 
us, tricked us, lied to us, taxed us unfairly, and in 
spite of whom we have managed to help our allies win 
this war. j 

“Then, when this petty, wretched, crooked bunch 
has been swept out, and the nation aired and disin- 
fected, and when the burden of taxation is properly 
distributed, and business dares lift its head again, then 
start your debates and propaganda and try to educate 
your enemies if you like. But keep your machine guns 
oiled.” 

“You speak in an uncomplimentary fashion of gov- 
ernment,” said the girl, smiling. 

“I am all for government. That does not mean 
that I am for the particular incumbents in office under 
the present Government. I have no use for them. 

255 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


know that this war was won, not through them but in 
spite of them. 

“Yet I place loyalty first of all — loyalty to the true 
ideals of that Government which some of the present 
incumbents so grotesquely misrepresent. 

“That means, stand by the ship and the flag she 
flies, no matter who steers or what crew capers about 
her decks. 

“That means, watch out for all pirates; — open fire 
on anything that flies a hostile flag, red or any other 
colour. 

“And that’s my creed, Marya!” 

“To shoot; not to debate?” 

“An inquest is safer.” 

“We shall never agree,” said the girl, laughing. 
“And I’m rather glad.” 

“Why?” 

“Because disagreements are more amusing than any 
entente cordiale, mon ami. It is the opposing forces 
that never bore each other. In life, too — I mean among 
human beings. Once they agree, interest lessens.” 

“Nonsense,” he said, smiling. 

“Oh, it is quite true. Behold us. We don’t agree. 
But I am interested,” she added with pretty audacity ; 
“so please take me to dinner somewhere.” 

“You mean now, as we are?” 

“Parblcu! Did you wish to go home and dress?” 

“I don’t care if you don’t,” he said. 

“Suppose,” she suggested, “we dine where there is 
something to see.” 

“A Broadway joint?” he asked, amused. 

“A joint?” she repeated, smilingly perplexed. “Is 
that a place where we may dine and see a spectacle 
too and afterward dance?” 

25 6 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


“Something of that sort,” he admitted, laughing. 
But under his careless gaiety an ugly determination 
had been hardening ; he meant to go no more to Palla ; 
he meant to welcome any distraction of the moment 
to help tide him over the long, grey interval that loomed 
ahead — welcome any draught that might mitigate the 
bitter waters he was tasting — and was destined to drain 
to their revolting dregs. 

They went to the Palace of Mirrors and were lucky 
enough to secure a box. 

The food was excellent; the show a gay one. 

Between intermissions he took Marya to the floor 
for a dance or two. The place was uncomfortably 
crowded : uniforms were everywhere, too ; and Jim 
nodded to many men he knew, and to a few women. 

And, in the vast, brilliant place, there was not a 
man who saw Marya and failed to turn and follow her 
with his eyes. For Marya had been fashioned to trouble 
man. And that primitively constructed and obviously- 
minded sex nev r failed to become troubled. 

“We’d better enjoy our champagne,” remarked 
Marya. “We’ll be a wineless nation before long, I 
suppose.” 

“It seems rather a pity,” he remarked, “that a man 
shouldn’t be free to enjoy a glass of claret. But if the 
unbaked and the half-baked, and the unwashed and the 
half-washed can’t be trusted to practise moderation, 
we others ought to abstain, I suppose. Because what 
is best for the majority ought to be the law for all.” 

“If it were left to me,” said the girl, “I’d let the 
submerged drink themselves to death.” 

“What on earth are you talking about?” he said. 
“I thought you were a socialist!” 

257 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


“I am. I desire no law except that of individual 
inclination.” 

“Why, that’s Bolshevism !” 

Her laughter rang out unrestrained: “I believe in 
Bolshevism — for myself — but not for anybody else. In 
other words, I’d like to be autocrat of the world. If 
I were, I’d let everybody alone unless they interfered 
with me.” 

“And in that event?” he asked, laughing, as the 
lights all over the house faded to a golden glimmer in 
preparation for the second part of the spectacle. He 
•could no longer see her clearly across the little table. 
“What would you do if people interfered with you?” 
he repeated. 

Marya smiled. The last ray of light smouldered in 
her tiger-red hair ; the warm, fragrant, breathing youth 
of her grew vaguer, merging with the shadows ; only 
the beryl-tinted eyes, which slanted slightly, remained 
distinct. 

Her voice came to him through the music: “If I 
were autocrat, any man who dared oppose me would 
have his choice.” 

“What choice?” 

The music swelled toward a breathless crescendo. 

She said : “Oppose me and you shall learn ! ” 

The house burst into a dazzling flood of moon-tinted 
light, all thronged with slim shapes whirling in an 
enchanted dance. Then clouds seemed to gather; the 
moon slid behind them, leaving a frosty demi-darkness 
through which, presently, snow began to fall. 

The girl leaned toward him, watching the spectacle 
in silence. Perhaps unconsciously her left hand, satin- 
smooth,' slipped over his — as though the contact were 
a symbol of enjoyment shared. 

258 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


Light broke the next moment, revealing the spectacle 
on stage and floor in all its tinsel magnificence — snow- 
nymphs, polar-bears, all capering madly until an un- 
earthly shriek heralded the coming of a favorite clown, 
who tumbled all the way down the stage steps and con- 
tinued hysterically turning flip-flaps, cart-wheels, and 
somersaults until he landed with a crash at the foot of 
the steps again. 

A large, highly coloured and over-glossy man^passing 
under their box during a dancing intermission, bowed 
rather extravagantly to Jim. He recognised Angelo 
Puma, with contemptuous amusement at his impudence. 

It was evident, too, that Puma was quite ready to 
linger if encouraged — anxious, in fact, to extend his 
hand. 

But his impudence had already ceased to amuse Jim, 
and he said carelessly to Marya, in a voice perfectly 
audible to Puma : 

“There goes a man who, in collusion with a squint- 
ing partner of his, once beat me out of a commission.” 

Puma’s heavy, burning face turned abruptly from 
Marya, whom he had been looking at ; and he continued 
on across the floor. And Jim forgot him. 

They remained until the place closed. Then he took 
her home. 

It was an apartment overlooking the park from 
Fifty-ninth Street — a big studio and apparently many 
comfortable rooms — a large, still place where no ser- 
vants were in evidence and where thick velvety carpets 
from Ushak and Sultanabad muffled every footfall. 

She had insisted on his entering for a moment. He 
stood looking about' him in the great studio, where 
259 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


Vanya’s concert-grand loomed up, a sprawling, shadowy 
shape under the dim drop-light which once had been 
a mosque-lamp in Samarcand. 

The girl flung stole and muff from her, rolled up 
her gloves and took a shot at the piano, then, laugh- 
ing, unpinned her hat and sent it scaling away into 
the golden dusk somewhere. 

* Are you sleepy, Jim?” 

A sudden vision of his trouble in the long, long night 
to face — trouble, insomnia, and the bitterness welling 
ever fresher with the interminable thoughts he could 
not suppress, could not control 

“I’m not sleepy,” he said. “But don’t you want to 
turn in?” 

She went over to the piano, and, accompanying her- 
self on deadenei pedal where she stood, sang in a low 
voice the “Snow-Tiger ,” with its uncanny refrain: 

“Tiger-eyes 

Tiger-eyes, 

What do you See 
Far in the dark 
Over the snow? 

Far in the dark 
Over the snow. 

Slowly the ghosts of dead men go, — 

Horses and riders under the moon 
Trample along to the dead men’s rune, 

Slava! Slava! 

Over the snow.” 

“That’s too hilarious a song,” said Jim, laughing. 
“May I suggest a little rag to properly subdue us?” 

“You don’t like Tiger-eyes ?” 

“I’ve heard more cheerful ditties.” 

260 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


“When I’m excited by pleasure,” said the girl, “I 
sing Tiger-eyes .” 

“Does it subdue you?” 

She looked at him. “No.” 

Still standing, she looked down at the keys, struck 
the muffled chords softly. 

“Tiger-eyes 

Tiger-eyes, 

Where do they go. 

Far in the dark 
Over the snow? 

Into the dark. 

Over the snow, 

Only the ghosts of the dead men know 
Where they have come from, whither they go. 

Riding at night by the corpse-light glow, 

Slava! Slava! 

Over the snow.” 


“Well, for the love of Mike ” 

Marya’s laughter pealed. 

“So you don’t like Tiger-eyes?” she demanded, com- 
ing from behind the piano. 

“I sure don’t,” he admitted. 

“The real Russian name of the song is ‘Words! 
Words!’ And that’s all the song is — all that any song 
is — all that anything amounts to — words ! words ! — ” 
She dropped onto the long couch, — “Anything except 
— love.” 

“You many include that, too,” he said, lighting a 
cigarette for her; and she blew a ring of smoke at 
him, saying: 

“I may — but I won’t. For goodness sake leave me 
the last one of my delusions!” 

261 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


They both laughed and he said she was welcome to 
her remaining delusion. 

“Won’t you share it with me?” she said, lier smile 
innocent enough, save for the audacity of the red mouth. 

“Share your delusion?” 

“Yes, that too.” 

This wouldn’t do. He lighted a cigarette for him- 
self and sauntered over to the piano. 

“I hope V any a’s concert is a success,” he said. “He’s 
such a charming fellow, Vanya — so considerate, so 
gentle — ” He turned and looked at Marya, and his 
eyes added: “Why the devil don’t you marry him and 
have a lot 1 of jolly children?” 

There seemed to be in his clear eyes enough for the 
girl to comprehend something of the question they 
flung at her. 

“I don’t love Vanya,” she said. 

“Of course you do !” 

“As I might love a child — yes.” 

After a silence : “It strikes me,” he said, “that you’re 
passionately in love.” 

“I am.” 

“With yourself,” he added, smiling. 

“With you ” 

This wouldn’t do any longer. The place slight!}' 
stifled him with its stillness, rugs — the odours that came 
from lacquered shapes, looming dimly, flowered and 
golden in the dusk — the aromatic scent of her cig- 
arette — 

“Hell!” he muttered under his breath. “This is no 
place for a white man.” But aloud he said pleasantly: 
“My very best wishes for Vanya to-night. Tell him 
so when he returns — ” He put on his overcoat and 
picked up hat and stick. 


262 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


“It’s infernally late,” lie added, “and I’ve been a 
beast to keep you up. It was awfully nice of you.” 

She rose from the lounge and walked with him to 
the door. 

“Good night,” he said cheerily; but she retained his 
hand, added her other to it, and put up her face. 

“Look here,” he said, smilingly, “I can’t do that, 
Marya.” 

“Why can’t you?” 

Her soft breath was on his face ; the mouth too near 
— too near — 

“No, I can’t!” he said curtly, but his voice trembled 
a little. 

“Why?” she whispered. 

“Because — there’s Vanya. No, I won’t do it!” 

“Is that the reason?” 

“It’s a reason.” 

“I don’t love Vanya. I do love you.” 

“Please remember ” 

“No! No! I have nothing to remember — unless 
you give me something ” 

“You had better try to remember that Vanya loves 
you. You and I can’t do a thing like that to Vanya — ” 

“Are there no other reasons?” 

He reddened to the temples: “No, there are not — 
now. There is no other reason — except myself.” 

“Yourself?” 

“Yes, damn it, myself! That’s all that remains now 
to keep me straight. And I’ve been so. That may be 
news to you. Perhaps you don’t believe it.” 

“Is it so, Jim?” she asked in a voice scarcely audi- 
ble. 

“Yes, it is. And so I shall keep on, and play the 

game that way — play it squarely with Vanya, too ” 

263 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


He had lost his heavy colour; he stood looking at her 
with a white, strained, grim expression that tightened 
the j aw muscles ; and she felt his powerful hand clench- 
ing between hers. 

“It’s no use,” he said between his set lips, “I’ve 
got to go on — see it through in my own fashion — 
this rotten thing called life. I’m sorry, Marya, that 
I’m not a better sport ” 

A wave of colour swept her face and her hands sud- 
denly crushed his between them. 

“You’re wonderful,” she said. “I do love you.” 

But the tense, grey look had come back into his 
face. Looking at her in silence, presently his gaze 
seemed to become remote, his absent eyes fixed on some- 
thing beyond her. 

“I’ve a rotten time ahead of me,” he said, not know- 
ing he had spoken. When his eyes reverted to her, his 
features remained expressionless, but his voice was 
almost tender as he said good night once more. 

Her hands fell away; he opened the door and went 
out without looking back. 

He found a taxi at the Plaza. He was swearing 
when he got into it. And all the way home he kept 
repeating to himself : “I’m one of those cursed, creeping 
Josephs; that’s what I am, — one of those pepless, sanc- 
timonious, creeping Josephs. . • . And I always 

loathed that poor fish, too!” 


CHAPTER XVIII 


S HOTWELL JUNIOR discovered in due course 
of time the memoranda of the repeated messages 
which Palla had telephoned to his several clubs, 
asking him to call her up immediately. 

It was rather late to do that now, but his pulses 
began to quicken again in the old, hopeless way ; and 
he went to the telephone booth and called the number 
which seemed burnt into his brain forever. 

A maid answered; Palla came presently; and he 
thought her voice seemed colourless and unfamiliar. 

“Yes, I’m perfectly well,” she replied to his inquiry ; 
“where in the world did you go that night? I simply 
couldn’t find you anywhere.” 

“What had you wished to say to me?” 

“Nothing — except — that I was afraid you were 
angry when you left, and I didn’t wish you to part 
with me on such terms. Were you annoyed?” 

“No.” 

“You say it very curtly, Jim.” 

“Is that all you desired to say to me?” 

“Yes. ... I was a little troubled. . . . 

Something else went wrong, too; — everything seemed 
to go wrong that night. ... I thought perhaps 
— if I could hear your voice — if you’d say something 
kind ” 

“Had you nothing else to tell me, Palla?” 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


“No. . . . What?” 

“Then you haven’t changed your attitude?” 

“Toward you? I don’t expect to ” 

“You know what I mean!” 

“Oh. But, Jim, we can’t discuss that over the tele- 
phone.” 

“I suppose not. ... Is anything wrong with 
you, Palla? Your voice sounds so tired ” 

“Does it? I don’t know why. Tell me, please, what 
did you do that unhappy night?” 

“I went home.” 

“Directly ?” 

“Yes.” 

“I telephoned your house about twelve, and was 
informed you were not at home.” 

“They thought I was asleep. I’m sorry, Palla ” 

“I shouldn’t have telephoned so late,” she interrupted. 
“I’m afraid that it was your mother who answered ; 
and if it was, I received the snub I deserved!” 

“Nonsense! It wasn’t meant that way ” 

“I’m afraid it was, Jim. It’s quite all right, though. 
I won’t do it again. . . . Am I to see you soon?” 

“No, not for a while ” 

“Are you so busy?” 

“There’s no use in my going to you, Palla.” 

“Why?” 

“Because I’m in love with you,” he said bluntly, 
“and I’m trying to get over it.” 

“I thought we were friends , too.” 

After a lengthy silence: “You’re right,” he said, “we 
are.” 

She heard his quick, deep breath like a sigh. “Shall 
I come to-night?” 

“I’m expecting some people, Jim — women who desire 

266 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


to establish a Combat Club in Chicago, and they have 
come on here to consult me.” 

“To-morrow night, then?” 

“Please.” 

“Will you be alone?” 

“I expect to be.” 

Once more he said: “Palla, is anything worrying 
you? Are you ill? Is Ilse all right?” 

There was a pause, then Palla’s voice, resolutely 
tranquil. “Everything is all right in the world as 
long as you are kind to me, Jim. When you’re not, 
things darken and become queer ” 

“Palla !” 

“Yes.” 

“Listen! This is to serve notice on you. I’m going 
to make a fight for you.” 

After a silence, he heard her sweet, uncertain laugh- 
ter. 

“Jim?” 

“Yes, dear.” 

“I suppose it would shock you if I made a fight for 
— you!” 

He took it as a jest and laughed at her perverse 
humour. But what she had meant she herself scarcely 
realised ; and she turned away from the telephone, con- 
scious of a vague excitement invading her and of a 
vaguer consternation, too. For behind the humorous 
audacity of her words, she seemed to realise there re- 
mained something hidden — something she was on the 
verge of discovering — something indefinable, menacing, 
grave enough to dismay her and drive from her lips 
the last traces of the smile which her audacious jest 
had left there. 

The ladies from Chicago were to dine with her; her 

267 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


maid had hooked her gown ; orchids from Jim had just 
arrived, and she was still pinning them to her waist — 
still happily thrilled by this lovely symbol of their 
renewed accord, when the bell rang. 

It was much too early to expect anybody: she fast- 
ened her orchids and started to descend the stairs for 
a last glance at the table, when, to her astonishment, 
she saw Angelo Puma in the hall in the act of deposit- 
ing his card upon the salver extended by the maid. 

He looked up and saw her before she could retreat: 
she made the best of it and continued on down, greeting 
him with inquiring amiability: 

“Miss Dumont, a thousand excuses for tills so bold 
intrusion,” he began, bowing extravagantly at every 
word. “Only the urgent importance of my errand 
could possibly atone for a presumption like there never 
has been in all ” 

“Please step into the drawing room, Mr. Puma, if 
you have something of importance to say.” 

He followed her on tiptoe, flashing his magnificent 
eyes about the place, still wearing over his evening 
dress the seal overcoat with its gardenia, which was 
already making him famous on Broadway. 

Palla seated herself, wondering a little at the per- 
fumed splendour of her landlord. He sat on the ex- 
treme edge of an arm chair, his glossy hat on his knee. 

“Miss Dumont,” he said, laying one white-gloved 
paw across his shirt-front, “you shall behold in me a 
desolate man!” 

“I’m sorry.” She looked at him in utter perplexity. 

“What shall you say to me?” he cried. “What just 
reproaches shall you address to me, Miss Dumont !” 

“I’m sure I don’t know, Mr. Puma,” she said, in- 

268 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


dined to laugh, “ — until you tell me what is your 
errand.” 

“Miss Dumont, I am most unhappy and embarrass. 
Because you have pay me in advance fo" that which I 
am unable to offer you.” 

“I don’t think I understand.” 

“Alas ! You have pay to me by cheque for six months 
more rent of my hall.” 

“Yes.” 

“I have given to you a lease for six months more, 
and with it an option for a year of renewal.” 

“Yes.” 

“Miss Dumont, behold me desolate.” 

“But why?” 

“Because I am force by circumstance over which I 
have no control to cancel this lease and option, and 
ask you most respectfully to be so kind as to secure 
other quarters for your club.” 

“But we can’t do that !” exclaimed Palla in dismay. 

“I am so very sorry ” 

“We can’t do it,” added Palla with decision. “It’s 
utterly impossible, Mr. Puma. All our meetings are 
arranged for months in advance; all the details are 
completed. We could not disarrange the programme 
adopted. From all over the United States people are 
invited to come on certain fixed dates. All arrange- 
ments have been made ; you have my cheque and I have 
your signed lease. No, we are obliged to hold you to 
your contract, and I’m very sorry if it inconveniences 
you.” 

Puma’s brilliant eyes became tenderly apprehensive. 

“Miss Dumont,” he said in a hushed and confidential 
voice, “believe me when I venture to say to you that 

269 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


your club should leave for reasons most grave, most 
serious.” 

“What reasons?” 

“The others — the Red Flag Club. Who knows what 
such crazy people might do in anger? They are very 
angry already. They complain that your club has 
interfere with them ” 

“That is exactly why we’re there, Mr. Puma — to 
interfere with them, neutralise their propaganda, try 
to draw the same people who listen to their violent 
tirades. That is why we’re there, and why we refuse 
to leave. Ours is a crusade of education. We chose 
that hall because we desired to make the fight in the 
very camp of the enemy. And I must tell you plainly 
that we shall not give up our lease, and that we shall 
hold you to it.” 

The dark blood flooded his heavy features : 

“I do not desire to take it to the courts,” he said. 
“I am willing to offer compensation.” 

“We couldn’t accept. Don’t you understand, Mr. 
Puma? We simply must have that particular hall for 
the Combat Club.” 

Puma remained perfectly silent for a few moments. 
There was still, on his thick lips, the suave smile which 
had been stamped there since his appearance in her 
house. 

But in this man’s mind and heart there was growing 
a sort of dull and ferocious fear — fear of elements 
already gathering and combining to menace his increas- 
ing prosperity. 

Sullenly he was aware that this hard-won prosperity 
was threatened. Always its conditions had been un- 
stable at best, but now the atmospheric pressure was 
slowly growing, and his sky of promise was not as clear. 

no 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


Some way, somehow, he must manage to evict these 
women. Twice Sondheim had warned him. And that 
evening Sondheim had sent him an ultimatum by 
Kastner. 

And Puma was perfectly aware that Karl Kastner 
knew enough about him to utterly ruin him in the great 
Republic which was now giving him a fortune and 
which had never discovered that his own treacherous 
mission here was the accomplishment of her ruin. 

Puma stood up, heavily, cradling his glossy hat. 
But his urbane smile became brilliant again and he 
made Palla an extravagant bow. 

“It shall be arrange,” he said cheerfully. “I consult 
my partner — your friend , Mr.’ Skidder! Yes! So 
shall we arrive at entente.” 

His large womanish eyes swept the room. Suddenly 
they were arrested by a photograph of Shotwell Junior 
— in a silver frame — the only ornament, as yet, in the 
little drawing room. 

And instantly, within Angelo Puma, the venomous 
instinct was aroused to do injury where it might be 
done safely and without suspicion of intent. 

“Ah,” he exclaimed gaily, “my friend, Mr. Shot- 
well! It is from him, Miss Dumont, you have purchase 
this so beautiful residence!” 

He bent to salute with a fanciful inclination the 
photograph of the man who had spoken so contemp- 
tuously of him the evening previous. 

“Mr. Shotwell also adores gaiety,” he said laugh- 
ingly. “Last night I beheld him at the Palace of 
Mirrors — and with an attractive young lad;y of your 
club, Miss Dumont — the charming young Russian lady 
with whom you came once to pay me the rent — ” He 
271 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


kissed his hand in an ecstasy of recollection. “So 
beautiful a young lady! So gay were they in their 
box ! Ah, youth ! youth ! Ah, the happiness and folly 
when laughter bubbles in our wine ! — the magic wine of 
youth !” 

He took his leave, moving lightly to the door, almost 
grotesque in his elaborate evolutions and adieux. 

Palla went slowly upstairs. 

The evening paper lay on a table in the living room. 
She unfolded it mechanically; looked at it but saw no 
print, merely an unsteady haze of greyish tint on 
which she could not seem to concentrate. 

Marya and Jim . . . together. . . . That 

was the night he went away angry. . . . The 

night he told her he had gone directly home. 

But it couldn’t have been. . . . He couldn’t have 

lied. 

She strove to recollect as she sat there staring at the 
newspaper. . . . What was it that beast had said 

about it ? . . . Of course — last night ! . . 
Marya and Jim had been together last night. . . . 
But where was Vanya? . . . Oh, ^res. 

Last night Vanya was away ... in Baltimore. 

The paper dropped to her lap ; she sat looking 
straight ahead of her. 

What had so shocked her then about Jim and Marya 
being together? True, she had not supposed them to 
be on such terms — had not even thought about it. . . . 

Yes, she had thought about it, scarcely conscious 
of her own indefinable uneasiness — a memory, perhaps, 
of that evening when the Russian girl had been at little 
pains to disguise her interest in this man. And Palla 
had noticed it — noticed that Marya was seated too 
near him — noticed that, and the subtle attitude of 
272 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


provocation, and the stealthy evolution of that occult 
sorcery which one woman instantly divines in another 
and finds slightly revolting. 

Was it merely that memory which had been evoked 
when Puma’s laughing revelation so oddly chilled her? 
— the suspected and discovered predilection of this 
Russian girl for Jim? Or was it something else, some- 
thing deeper, some sudden and more profound illumi- 
nation which revealed to her that, in the depths of her, 
she was afraid? 

Afraid? Afraid of what? 

Her charming young head sank ; the brown eyes 
stared at the floor. 

She was beginning to understand what had chilled 
her, what she had unconsciously been afraid of — her 
own creed ! — when applied to another woman. 

And this was the second time that this creed of hers 
had risen to confront her, and the second time she had 
gazed at it, chilled by fear: once, when she had waited 
for Ilse to return ; and now once again. 

For now she began to comprehend how ruthless that 
creed could become when professed by such a girl as 
Mary a Lanois. 

She was still seated there when Marya came in, her 
tiger-red hair in fascinating disorder from the wind, 
her skin fairly breathing the warm fragrance of exotic 
youth. 

“My Palla ! How pale you seem !” she exclaimed, 
embracing her. “You are quite well? Really? Then 
I am reasurred!” 

She went to the mirror and tucked in a burnished 
strand or two of hair. 

“These Chicago ladies — they have not arrived, I 

273 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


see. Am I then so early? For I see that Ilse is not 
yet here ” 

“It is only a quarter to eight,” said Palla, smiling; 
but the brown eyes w T ere calmly measuring this lithe and 
■warm and lovely thing with green eyes — measuring it 
intently — taking its measure — taking, for the first 
time in her life, her measure of any woman. 

“Was Vanya’s concert a great success?” she asked. 

“Vanya has not yet returned.” She shrugged. 
“There was nothing in New York papers.” 

“I suppose you were very nervous last night,” said 
Palla. 

For a moment Marya continued to arrange her hair 
by the aid of the mantel mirror, then she turned very 
lithely and let her green gaze rest full on Palla’s face. 

What she might possibly have divined was hidden 
behind the steady brown eyes that met hers may have 
determined her attitude and words ; for she laughed 
with frank carelessness and plunged into it all: 

“Fancy, Palla, my encountering Jim^Shotwell in the 
Biltmore, and dining with him at that noisy Palace of 
Mirrors last night ! Did he tell you ?” 

“I haven’t seen him.” 

“ — Over the telephone, perhaps?” 

“No, he did not mention it.” 

“Well, it w~as most amusing. It is the unpremedi- 
tated that is delightful. And can you see us in that 
dreadful place, as gay as a pair of school children? 
And we must laugh at nothing and find it enchanting 
— and we must dance amid the hoi polloi and clap our 
hands for the encore too! ” 

A light peal of laughter floated from her lips at the 
recollections evoked: 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


“And after! Can you see us, Palla, in Vanya’s 
studio, too wide awake to go our ways ! — and the song 
I sang at that unearthly hour — the song I sing always 

when happily excited ” 

The bell rang; the first guest had arrived. 


CHAPTER XIX 


V ANYA’S concert had been enough of a success to 
attract the attention of genuine music-lovers 
and an impecunious impresario — an irresponsi- 
ble promoter celebrated for rushing headlong into 
things and being kicked headlong out of them. 

All promising virtuosi had cut their wisdom teeth 
on him ; all had acquired experience and its accompany- 
ing toothache; none had acquired wealth until free of 
this ubiquitous impresario. 

His name was Wilding; he seized upon Vanya; and 
that gentle and disconcerted dreamer offered no re- 
sistance. 

So Wilding began to haunt Vanya’s apartment at 
all hours of the day, rushing in with characteristic 
enthusiasm to discuss the vast campaign of nation- 
wide concerts which in his mind’s eye were already 
materialising. 

Mary a had no faith in him and was becoming very 
tired of his noise and bustle in the stillness and sub- 
dued light which meant home to her, and which this 
loud, excitable, untidy man was eternally invading. 

Always he was shouting at Vanya: “It’s a knock-out! 
It will go big ! big ! big ! We got ’em started in Balti- 
more!” — a fact, but none of his doing! “We’ll play 
Philadelphia next ; I’m fixin’ it for you. All you gotta 
do is go there and the yelling starts. Well, I guess. 
Some riot, believe me!” 

Wilding had no money in the beginning. After a 

276 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


while, Vanya had none, or very little; but the impre- 
sario wore a new fur coat and spats. And Broadway 
winked wearily and said: “He’s got another!” — doubt- 
less deeming specification mere redundancy. 

Yet, somehow, Wilding did manage to book Vanya 
in Philadelphia — at a somewhat distant date, it is true 
— but it was something with which to begin the prom- 
ised “nation-wide tour” under the auspices of Dawson 
B. Wilding. 

Marya had money of her own, but trusted none of 
it in Wilding’s schemes. In fact, she had come to detest 
him thoroughly, and whenever he was announced she 
would rise like some beautiful, disgusted feline, which 
something has disturbed in her dim and favourite cor- 
ner, and move lithely away to another room. And it 
almost seemed as though her little, warm, closely-chis- 
elled ears actually flattened with bored annoyance as 
the din of Wilding’s vociferous greeting to Vanya arose 
behind her. 

One day toward Christmas time, she said to Vanya, in 
her level, satin-smooth voice: 

“You know, mon ami , I am tiring rapidly of this 
great fool who comes shouting and tramping into our 
home. And when I am annoyed beyond my nerve 
capacitjr, I am likely to leave.” 

Vanya said gently that he was sorry that he had 
entered into financial relations with a man who annoyed 
her, but that it could scarcely be helped now. 

He was seated at his piano, not playing, but scoring. 
And he resumed his composition after he had spoken, 
his grave, delicate head bent over the ruled sheets, a 
gold pencil held between his long fingers. 

Marya lounged near, watched him. Not for the first 

277 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


time, now, did his sweet temper and gentleness vaguely 
irritate her — string her nerves a little tighter until 
they began to vibrate with an indefinable longing to 
say something to arouse this man — startle him — awaken 
him to a physical tensity and strength. . . . Such 

as Shotwell’s for example. 

“Vanya?” 

He looked up absently, the beauty of dreams still 
clouding his eyes. 

And suddenly, to her own astonishment, her endur- 
ance came to its end. She had never expected to say 
what she was now going to say to him. She had never 
dreamed of confession — of enlightening him. And now, 
all at once, she knew she was going to do it, and that 
it was a needless and cruel and insane and useless thing 
to do, for it led her nowhere, and it would leave him 
in helpless pain. 

“Vanya,” she said, “I am in love with Jim Shotwell.” 

After a few moments, she turned and slowly crossed 
the studio. Her hat and coat lay on a chair. She 
put them on and walked out. 

The following morning, Palla, arriving to consult 
Marya on a matter of the Club’s business, discovered 
Vanya alone in the studio. 

He was lying on the lounge when she entered, and he 
looked ill, but he rose with all his characteristic grace 
and charm and led her to a chair, saluting her hand as 
he seated her. 

“Marya has not yet arrived?” she inquired. 

His delicate features became very grave and still. 

“I thought,” added Palla, “that Marya usually 
breakfasted at eleven ” 

Something in his expression checked her; and she 

278 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


fell silent, fascinated by the deathly whiteness of his 
face. 

“I am sorry to tell you,” he said, in a pleasant and 
steady voice, “that Marya has not returned.” 

“Why — why, I didn’t know she was away ” 

“Yesterday she decided. Later she was good enough 
to telephone from the Hotel Rajah, where, for the 
present, she expects to remain.” 

“Oh, Vanya!” Palla’s involutary exclamation 
brought a trace of colour into his cheeks. 

He said: “It is not her fault. She was loyal and 
truthful. One may not control one’s heart. 

.And if she is in love — well, is she not free to love him?” 

“Who — is — it?” asked Palla faintly. 

“Mr. Shotwell, it appears.” 

In the dead silence, Vanya passed his hand slowly 
across his temples; let it drop on his knee. 

“Freedom above all else,” he said, “ — freedom to 
love, freedom to cease loving, freedom to love anew. 
. . . Well. . . . it is curious — the scheme of 
things. . . . Love must remain inexplicable. For 

there is no analysis. I think there never could be any 
man who cared as I have cared, as I do care for 
her. ...” 

He rose, and to Palla he seemed already a trifle 
stooped ; — it may have been his studio coat, which 
fitted badly. 

“Rut, Vanya dear — ” Palla looked at him miserably, 
conscious of her own keen fears as well as of his sorrow. 
“Don’t you think she’ll come back? Do you suppose 
it is really so serious — what she thinks about — Mr. 
Shotwell ?” 

He shook his head : “I don’t know. . . . If it is 

so, it is so. Freedom is of first importance. Our creed 

279 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


is our creed. We must abide by what we teach and 
believe.” 

“Yes.” 

He nodded absently, staring palely into space. 

Perhaps his lost gaze evoked the warm-skinned, 
sunny-haired girl who had gone out of the semi-light of 
this still place, leaving the void unutterably vast around 
him. For this had been the lithe thing’s silken lair — 
the slim and supple thing with beryl eyes — here where 
thick-piled carpets of the East deadened every human 
movement — where no sound stirred, nor any air — where 
dull shapes loomed, lacquered and indistinct, and an 
odour of Chinese lacquer and nard haunted the tinted 
dusk. 

Like one of those lazy, golden, jewelled sea-creatures 
of irresponsible freedom brought seemed to fill the girl 
cooler currents arouses a restlessness infernal, Marya’s 
first long breath of freedom subtly excited her. 

She had no definite ideas, no plans. She was merely 
tired of Vanya. 

Perhaps her fresh, wholesome contact with Jim had 
started it — the sense of a clean vitality which had seemed 
to envelop her like the delicious, half-resented chill 
of a spring-pool plunge. For the exhilaration possessed 
her still ; and the sudden stimulation which the sense 
of irresponsible freedom brought seemed to fill the girl 
with a new vigour. 

Foot-loose, heart-loose, her green eyes on the open 
world where it stretched away into infinite horizons, 
she paced her new nest in the Hotel Rajah, tingling 
with subdued excitement, innocent of the faintest regret 
for what had been. 

For a week she lived alone, enjoying the sensa- 

280 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


tion of being hidden, languidly savouring the warm 
comfort of isolation. 

She had not sent for her belongings. She purchased 
new personal effects, enchanted to be rid of familiar 
things. 

There was no snow. She walked a great deal, moving 
in unaccustomed sections of the city at all hours, skirt- 
ing in the early winter dusk the glitter of Christmas 
preparations along avenues and squares, lunching where 
she was unlikely to encounter anybody she knew, dining, 
too, at hazard in unwonted places — restaurants she 
had never heard of, tea-rooms, odd corners. 

Vanya wrote her. She tossed his letters aside, 
scarcely read. Use and Palla wrote her, and telephoned 
her. She paid them no attention. 

The metropolitan jungle fascinated her. She adored 
her liberty, and looked out of beryl-green eyes across 
the border of license, where ghosts of the half-world 
swarmed in no-man’s-land. 

Conscious that she had been fashioned to trouble 
man, the knowledge merely left her indefinitely con- 
tented, save when she remembered Jim. But that he 
had checked her drift toward him merely excited her; 
for she knew she had been made to trouble such as he ; 
and she had seen his face that night. . . . 

Use, on her way home to dress — for she was going 
out somewhere with Estridge — stopped for tea at Palla’s 
house, and found her a little disturbed over an anony- 
mous letter just delivered — a typewritten sheet bluntly 
telling her to take her friends and get out of the hall 
where the Combat Club held its public sessions; and 
warning her of serious trouble if she did not heed this 
“friendly” advice. 


281 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


“Pouf !” exclaimed Ilse contemptuously, “I get those, 
too, and tear them up. People who talk never strike. 
Are you anxious, darling ?” 

Palla smiled: “Not a bit — only such cowardice sad- 
dens me. . . . And the days are grey enough. 

“Why do you say that? I think it is a wonderful 
winter — a beautiful year!” 

Palla lifted her brown eyes and let them dwell on 
the beauty of this clear-skinned, golden-haired girl who 
had discovered beauty in the aftermath of the world’s 
great tragedy. 

Ilse smiled: “Life is good,” she said. “This world 
is all to be done over in the right way. We have it 
all before us, you and I, Palla, and those who love 
and understand.” 

“I am wondering,” said Palla, “who understands us. 
I’m not discouraged, but — there seems to be so much 
indifference in the world.” 

“Of course. That is our battle to overcome it.” 

“Yes. But, dear, there seems to be so much hatred, 
too, in the world. I thought the war had ended, but 
everywhere men are still in battle — everywhere men 
are dying of this fierce hatred .that seems to flame up 
anew across the world ; everywhere men fight and slay 
to gain advantage. None yields, none renounces, none 
gives. It is as though love were dead on earth.” 

“Love is being reborn,” said Ilse cheerfully. “Birth 
means pain, always ” 

Without warning, a hot flush flooded her face; she 
averted it as the tea-tray was brought and set on a 
table before Palla. When her face cooled, she leaned 
back in her chair, cup in hand, a sort of confused 
sweetness in her blue eyes. 

282 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


Palla’s heart was beating heavily as she leaned on 
the table, her cup untasted, her idle fingers crumbing 
the morsel of biscuit between them. 

After a moment she said: “So you have concluded 
that you care for John Estridge?” 

“Yes, I care,” said Ilse absently, the same odd, sweet 
smile curving her cheeks. 

“That is — wonderful,” said Palla, not looking at 
her. 

Ilse remained silent, her blue gaze aloof. 

A maid came and turned up the lamps, and went 
away again. 

Palla said in a low voice: “Are you — afraid?” 

“No.” 

They both remained silent until she rose to go. Palla, 
walking with her to the head of the stairs, holding one 
of her hands imprisoned, said with an effort: “I am 
frightened, dear. ... I can’t help it. 

You will be certain, first, won’t you? ” 

“It is as certain as death,” said Ilse in a low, still 
voice. 

Palla shivered; she passed one arm around her; and 
they stood so for a while. Then Use’s arm tightened, 
and the old gaiety glinted in her sea-blue eyes : 

“Is your house in order too, Palla?” she asked. 
“Turn around, little enigma! There; I can look into 
those brown eyes now. And I see nothing in them to 
answer me my question.” 

“Do you mean Jim?” 

“I do.” 

“I haven’t seen him.” 

“For how long?” 

“Weeks. I don’t know how long it has been ” 

“Have you quarrelled?” 

283 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


“Yes. We seem to. This is quite the most serious 
one yet.” 

“You are not in love with him.” 

“Oh, Ilse, I don’t know. He simply can’t understand 
me. I feel so bruised and tired after a controversy 
with him. He seems to be so merciless to my opinions 
— so violent ” 

“You poor child. . t . . After all, Palla, freedom 
also means the liberty to change one’s mind. . . . 

If you should care to change yours ” 

“I can’t change my inmost convictions.” 

“Those— no.” 

“I have not changed them. I almost wish I could. 
But I’ve got to be honest. . . . And he can’t un- 

derstand me.” 

Ilse smiled and kissed her: “That is scarcely to be 
wondered at, as you don’t seem to know your own mind. 
Perhaps when you do he, also, may understand you. 
Good-bye! I must run ” 

Palla watched her to the foot of the stairs ; the door 
closed; the engine of a taxi began to hum. 

Her telephone was ringing when she returned to the 
living room, and the quick leap of her heart averted 
her of the hope revived. 

But it was a strange voice on the wire, — -a man’s 
voice, clear, sinister, tainted with a German accent: 

“Iss this Miss Dumont? Yess? Then this I half 
to say to you: You shall find yourself in serious 
trouble if jrou do not move your foolish club of vimmen 
out of the vicinity of which you know. We giff you 
one more chance. So shall you take it or you shall 
take some consequences ! Goot-night /” 

The instrument clicked in her ear as the unknown 

284 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


threatener hung up, leaving her seated there, aston- 
ished, hurt, bewildered. 

The man who “hung up on her” stepped out of a 
saloon on Eighth Avenue and joined two other men 
on the comer. 

The man was Karl Kastner; the other two were 
Sondheim and Bromberg. 

“Get her?” growled the latter, as all three started 
east. 

“Yess. And now we shall see what we shall see. 
We start the finish now already. All foolishness shall 
be ended. Now we fix Puma.” 

They continued on across the street, clumping along 
with their overcoat collars turned up, for it had turned 
bitter cold and the wind was rising. 

“You don’t think it’s a plant?” inquired Sondheim, 
for the third time. 

Bromberg blew his red nose on a dirty red handker- 
chief. 

“We’ll plant Puma if he tries any of that,” he said 
thickly. 

Kastner added that he feared investigation more 
than they did because he had more at stake. 

“Dot guy he iss rich like a millionaire,” he added. 
“Ve make him pay some dammach, too.” 

“How’s he going to fire that bunch of women if they 
got a lease?” demanded Bromberg. 

“Who the hell cares how he does it?” grunted Sond- 
heim. 

“Sure,” added Kastner; “let him dig up. You buy 
anybody if you haff sufficient coin. Effery time! Yess. 
Also! Let him dig down into his pants once. So shall 
285 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


he pay them, these vimmen, to go avay und shut up 
mit their mischief what they make for us already!” 

Sondheim was still muttering about “plants” in the 
depths of his soiled overcoat-collar, when they arrived 
at the hall and presented themselves at the door of 
Puma’s outer office. 

A girl took their message. After a while she returned 
and piloted them out, and up a wide flight of stairs 
to a door marked, “No admittance.” Here she knocked, 
and Puma’s voice bade them enter. 

Angelo Puma was standing by a desk when they 
trooped in, keeping their hats on. The room was 
ventilated and illumined in the daytime only by a very 
dirty transom giving on a shaft. Otherwise, there 
were no windows, no outlet to any outer light and air. 

Two gas jets caged in wire — obsolete stage dress- 
ing-room effects — lighted the room and glimmered on 
Puma’s polished top-hat and the gold knob of his walk- 
ing-stick. 

As for Puma himself, he glanced up stealthily from 
the scenario he was reading as he stood by the big 
desk, but dropped his eyes again, and, opening a 
drawer, laid away the typed manuscript. Then he 
pulled out the revolving desk chair and sat down. 

“Well?” he inquired, lighting a cigar. 

There was an ominous silence among the three men 
for another moment. Then Puma looked up, puffing 
his cigar, and Sondheim stepped forward from the 
group and shook his finger in his face. 

“What yah got planted around here for us? Hey?” 
he demanded in a low, hoarse voice. “Come on now, 
Puma! What yeh think yeh got on us?” And to 
Kastner and Bromberg: “Go ahead, boys, look for a 
286 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


dictaphone and them kind of things. And if this wop 
hollers I’ll do him.” 

A ruddy light flickered in Puma’s eyes, but the cool 
smile lay smoothly on his lips, and he did not even turn 
his head to watch them as they passed along the walls, 
sounding, peering, prying, and jerking open the door 
of the cupboard — the only furniture there except the 
desk and the chair on which Puma sat. 

“What the hell’s the matter with yeh?” snarled 
Sondheim, suddenly stooping to catch Puma’s eye, 
which had wandered as though bored by the proceed- 
ings. 

“Nothing,” said Puma, coolly; “what’s the matter 
with you, Max?” 

Kastner came around beside him and said in his 
thin, sinister tone: 

“You know it vat I got on you, Angelo?” 

“I do.” 

“So? Also! Vas iss it you do about doze vimmen?” 

“They won’t go.” 

In Bromberg’s voice sounded an ominous roar: 
“Don’t hand us nothing like that! You hear what 
I’m telling you?” 

Puma shrugged: “I hand you what I have to hand 
you. They have the lease. What is there for me 
to do?” 

“Buy ’em off!” 

“I try. They will not.” 

“You offer ’em enough and they’ll quit!” 

“No. They will not. They say they are here to 
fight you. They laugh at my money. What shall 
I do?” 

“I’ll tell you one thing you’ll do, and do it damn 

287 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


quick!” roared Bromberg. “Hand over that money 
we need!” 

“If you bellow in so loud a manner,” said Puma, 
“they could hear you in the studio. • . • How 

much do you ask for?” 

“Two thousand.” 

“No.” 

“What yeh mean by ‘No’?” 

“What I say to you, that I have not two thousand.” 

“You lying greaser ” 

“I do not lie. I have paid my people and there re- 
mains but six hundred dollars in my bank.” 

“When do we get the rest?” asked Sondheim, as Puma 
tossed the packet of bills onto the desk. 

“When I make it,” replied Puma tranquilly. “You 
will understand my receipts are my capital at present. 
What else I have is engaged already in my new theatre. 
If you will be patient you shall have what I can spare.” 

Bromberg rested both hairy fists on the desk and 
glared down at Puma. 

“Who’s this new guy you got to go in with you? 
What’s the matter with our getting a jag of his coin?” 

“You mean Mr. Pawling?” 

“Yeh. Who the hell is that duck what inks his 
whiskers ?” 

“A partner.” 

“Well, let him shove us ours then.” 

“You wish to ruin me?” inquired Puma placidly. 

“Not while you’re milkin’,” said Sondheim, showing 
every yellow fang in a grin. 

“Then do not frighten Mr. Pawling out. Already 
you have scared my other partner, Mr. Skidder, like 
there never was any rabbits scared. You are foolish. 
If you are reasonable, I shall make money and you 
288 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


shall have your share. If you are not, then there is 
no money to give you.” 

Sondheim said: “Take a slant at them yellow-backs, 
Karl.” And Kastner screwed a powerful jeweller’s 
glass into his eye and began a minute examination of 
the orange-coloured treasury notes, to find out whether 
they were marked bills. 

Bromberg said heavily : “See here, Angelo, you gotta 
quit this damned stalling! You gotta get them women 
out, and do it quick or we’ll blow your dirty barracks 
into the North River!” 

Sondheim began to wag his soiled forefinger again. 

“Yeh quit us cold when things was on the fritz. 
Now, yeh gotta pay. If you wasn’t nothing but a wop 
skunk yeh’d stand in with us. The way you’re fixed 
would help us all. But now yeh makin’ money and yeh 
scared o’ yeh shadow! ” 

Bromberg cut in: “And you’ll be outside when the 
band starts playing. Look what’s doing all over the 
world! Every country is starting something! You 
watch Berlin and Rosa Luxemburg and her bunch. 
Keep your eye peeled, Angy, and see what we and the 
I. W. W. start in every city of the country!” 

Kastner, having satisfied himself that the bills had 
not been marked, and pocketed his jeweller’s glass, 
pushed back his lank blond hair. 

“Yess,” he said in his icy, incisive voice, “yoost vatch 
out already ! Dot crimson tide it iss rising the vorld all 
ofer ! It shall drown effery aristocrat, effery bourgeois, 
effery intellectual. It shall be but a red flood ofer all 
the vorld vere noddings shall live only our peoble off the 
proletariat !” 

“And where the hell will you be then, Angelo?” 

289 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


sneered Bromberg. “By God, we won’t have to ask you 
for our share of your money then!” 

Again Sondheim leaned over him and wagged his 
nicotine-dyed finger: 

“You get the rest of our money! Understand? And 
you get them women out ! — or I tell you we’ll blow you 
and your joint to Hoboken ! Get that?” 

“I have understood,” said Puma quietly ; but his 
heavy face was a muddy red now, and he choked a 
little when he spoke. 

“Give us a date and stick to it,” added Bromberg. 
“Set it yourself. And after that we won’t bother to 
do any more jawin’. We’ll just attend to business — 
your business, Puma !” 

After a long silence, Puma said calmly : “How much 
you want?” 

“Ten thousand,” said Sondheim. 

“And them women out of this,” added Bromberg. 

“Or ve get you,” ended Kastner in his deadly voice. 

Puma lifted his head and looked intently at each 
one of them in turn. And seemed presently to come to 
some conclusion. 

Kastner forestalled him: “You try it some monkey 
trick and you try it no more effer again.” 

“What’s your date for the cash?” insisted Sondheim. 

“February first,” replied Puma quietly. 

Kastner wrote it on the back of an envelope. 

“Und dese vimmen?” he inquired. 

“I’ll get a lawyer ” 

“The hell with that stuff!” roared Bromberg. “Get 
’em out! Scare ’em out! Jesus Christ! how long 
d’yeh think we’re going to stand for being hammered 
by that bunch o’ skirts? They got a lot o’ people 
sore on us now. The crowd what uster come around 
290 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


is gettin’ leery. And who are these damned women? 
One of ’em was a White Nun, when they did the busi- 
ness for the Romanoffs. One of ’em fired on the 
Bolsheviki — that big blond girl with yellow hair, I mean ! 
Wasn’t she one of those damned girl-soldiers? And 
look what she’s up to now — cornin’ over here to talk 
us off the platform! — the dirty foreigner!” 

“Yes,” growled Bromberg, “and there’s that red- 
headed wench of Vanya’s! — some Grand Duke’s slut, 
they say, before she quit him for the university to start 
something else ” 

Kastner cut in in his steely voice: “If you do not 
throw out these women, Puma, we fix them and your 
hall and you — all at one time, my friend. Also ! Iss 
it then for February the first, our understanding? Or 
iss it, a little later, the end of all your troubles, 
Angelo ?” 

Puma got up, nodded his acceptance of their ulti- 
matum, and opened the door for them. 

When they trooped out, under the brick arch, they 
noticed his splendid limousine waiting, and as they 
shuffled sullenly away westward, Bromberg, looking 
back, saw Puma come out and jump lightly into the 
car. 

“Swine !” he snarled, facing the bitter wind once more 
and shuffling along beside his silent brethren. 

Puma went east, then north to the Hotel Rajah, 
where, in a private room, he was to complete a financial 
transaction with Alonzo B. Pawling. 

Skidder, too, came in at the same time, squinting 
rapidly at his partner ; and together they moved toward 
the elevator. 

The elevator waited a moment more to accommodate 
a willowy, red-haired girl in furs, whose jade eyes 
291 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


barely rested on Puma’s magnificent black ones as he 
stepped aside to make way for her with an extravagant 
bow. 

“Some skirt,” murmured Skidder in his ear, as the 
car shot upward. 

Mary a left the car at the mezzanine floor: Puma’s 
eyes were like coals for a moment. 

“You know that dame?” inquired Skidder, his eyes 
fairly snapping. 

“No.” He did not add that he had seen her at the 
Combat Club and knew her to belong to another man. 
But his black eyes were almost blazing as he stepped 
from the elevator, for in Marya’s insolent glance he 
had caught a vague glimmer of fire — merely a green 
spark, very faint — if, indeed, it had been there at 
all. . . . 

Pawling himself opened the door for them. 

“Is it all right? Do we get the parcel?” were his 
first words. 

“It’s a knock-out!” cried Skidder, slapping him on 
the back. “We got the land, we got the plans, we got 
the iron, we got the contracts! — Oh, boy! — our dough 
is in — go look at it and smell it for yourself! So get 
into the jack, old scout, and ante up, because we break 
ground Wednesday and there’ll be bills before then, 
you betcha!” 

When the cocktails were brought, Puma swallowed 
his in a hurry, saying he’d be back in a moment, and 
bidding Skidder enlighten Mr. Pawling during the 
interim. 

He summoned the elevator, got out at the mezzanine, 
and walked lightly into the deserted and cloister-like 
perspective, his shiny hat in his hand. 

292 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


And saw Marya standing by the marble ramp, look- 
ing down at the bustle below. 

He stopped not far away. He had made no sound 
on the velvet carpet. But presently she turned her 
head and the green eyes met his black ones. 

Neither winced. The sheer bulk of the beast and the 
florid magnificence of its colour seemed to fascinate her. 

She had seen him before, and scarcely noted him. 
She remembered. But the world was duller, then, and 
the outlook grey. And then, too, her still, green eyes 
had not yet wandered beyond far horizons, nor had her 
heart been cut adrift to follow her fancy when the tides 
stirred it from its mooring — carrying it away, away 
through deeps or shallows as the currents swerved. 


CHAPTER XX 


T HE pale parody on that sacred date which once 
had symbolised the birth of Christ had come 
and gone; the ghastly year was nearing its 
own death — the bloodiest year, for all its final tri- 
umph, that the world had ever witnessed — Vannee hor- 
rible! 

Nor was the end yet, of all this death and dying: 
for the Crimson Tide, washing through Russia, east- 
ward, seethed and eddied among the wrecks of empires, 
lapping Poland’s bones, splashing over the charred 
threshold of the huns, creeping into the Balkans, crawl- 
ing toward Greece and Italy, menacing Scandinavia, 
and arousing the stern watchers along the French 
frontier — the ultimate eastward barrier of human 
liberty. 

And unless, despite the fools who demur, that barrier 
be based upon the Rhine, that barrier will fall one day. 

Even in England, where the captive navies of the 
anti-Christ now sulked at anchor under England’s con- 
secrated guns, some talked glibly of rule by Soviet. 
All Ireland bristled now, baring its teeth at govern- 
ment; vast armies, disbanding, were becoming dully 
restless; and armed men, disarming, began to wonder 
what now might be their destiny and what the destiny 
of the world they fought for. 

And everywhere, among all peoples, swarmed the 
stealthy agents of the Red Apocalypse, whispering dis- 
content, hinting treasons, stirring the unhappy to 
294 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


sullen anger, inciting the simple-minded to insanity, the 
ignorant to revolution. For four years it had been 
a battle between Light and Night; and now there 
threatened to be joined in battle the uttermost forces 
of Evolution and Chaos — the spiritual Armageddon at 
last, where Life and Light and Order must fight a final 
fight with Degeneracy, Darkness and Death. 

And always, everywhere, that hell-born Crimson Tide 
seemed to be rising. All newspapers were full of it, 
sounding the universal alarm. And Civilisation merely 
stared at the scarlet flood — gawked stupidly and un- 
stirring — while the far clamour of massacre throughout 
Russia grew suddenly to a crashing discord in Berlin, 
shaking the whole world with brazen dissonance. 

Like the first ominous puff before the tempest, the 
deadly breath of the Black Death — called “influenza,” 
but known of old among the verminous myriads of the 
East — swept over the earth from East to West. Mil- 
lions died; millions were yet to perish of it; yet the 
dazed world, still half blind with blood and smoke, sat 
helpless and unstirring, barring no gates to this 
pestilence that stalked the stricken earth at noon-day. 

New York, partly paralysed by sacrifice and the 
blood-sucking antics of half-crazed congressmen, gorged 
by six years feeding after decades of starvation, wel- 
comed the incoming soldiers in a bewildered sort of way, 
making either an idiot’s din of dissonance or gaping in 
stupid silence as the huge troop-ships swept up the bay. 

The battle fleet arrived — the home squadron and the 
“6th battle squadron” — and lay towering along the 
Hudson, while officers and jackies swarmed the streets 
— streets now thronged by wounded, too — pallid 
cripples in olive drab, limping along slowly beneath 
lowering skies, with their citations and crosses and 
295 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


ribbons and wound chevrons in glinting gold under the 
relighted lustres of the metropolis. 

So the false mockery of Christmas came to the city — 
a forced festival, unutterably sad, for all that the end 
of the war was subject of thanks in every church and 
synagogue. And so the mystic feast ended, scarcely 
heeded amid the slow, half-crippled groping for finan- 
cial readjustment in the teeth of a snarling and vin- 
dictive Congress, mean in its envy, meaner in revenge 
— a domestic brand of sectional Bolsheviki as dirty and 
degenerate as any anarchist in all Russia. 

The President had sailed away — (Slava! Slava! 
Nechevo !) — and the newspapers were preparing to tell 
their disillusioned public all about it, if permitted. 

And so dawned the New Year over the spreading 
crimson flood, flecking the mounting tide with brighter 
scarlet as it crept ever westward, ever wider, across a 
wounded world. 

Palla had not seen Jim for a very long time now. 
Christmas passed, bringing neither gift nor message, 
although she had sent him a little remembrance — The 
Divine Pantheon , by an unfrocked Anglican clergyman, 
one Loxon Fettars, recently under detention pending in- 
vestigation concerning an alleged multiplicity of wives. 

The New Year brought no greeting from him, either; 
nobody she knew had seen him, and her pride had re- 
volted at writing him after she had telephoned and left 
a message at his club — her usual concession after a 
stormy parting. 

And there was another matter that was causing her 
a constantly increasing unrest — she had not seen Marya 
for many a day. 

Quiet grief for what now appeared to be a friend- 

296 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


ship ended — at other times a tingle of bitterness that 
he had let it end so relentlessly — and sometimes, at 
night, the secret dread — eternally buried yet perennially 
resurrected — the still, hidden, ever-living fear of 
Marya ; these the girl knew, now, as part of life. 

And went on, steadily, with her life’s business, as 
though moving toward a dark horizon where clouds 
towered gradually higher, reflecting the glimmer of 
unseen lightning. 

Somehow, lately, a vague sensation of impending 
trouble had invaded her; and she never entirely shook 
it off, even in her lighter moods, when there was gay 
company around her ; or in the warm flush of optimistic 
propaganda work; or in the increasingly exciting ses- 
sions of the Combat Club, now interrupted nightly by 
fierce outbreaks from emissaries of the Red Flag Club, 
who were there to make mischief. 

Also, there had been an innovation established among 
her company of moderate socialists ; a corps of mission- 
ary speakers, who volunteered on certain nights to 
speak from the classic soap-box on street corners, urg- 
ing the propaganda of their panacea, the Law of Love 
and Service. 

Twice already, despite her natural timidity and 
dread of public speaking, Palla had faced idle, half- 
curious, half sneering crowds just east or west of Broad- 
way ; had struggled through with what she had come to 
say; had gently replied to heckling, blushed under in- 
sult, stood trembling by her guns to the end. 

Use was more convincing, more popular with her gay 
insouciance and infectious laughter, and her unex- 
pected and enchanting flashes of militancy, which always 
interested the crowd. 

And always, after these soap-box efforts, both Palla 

297 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


and Ilse were insulted over the telephone by unknown 
men. Their mail, also, invariably contained abusive 
or threatening letters, and sometimes vile ones ; and 
Estridge purchased pistols for them both and exacted 
pledges that they carry them at night. 

On the evening selected for Palla’s third essay in 
street oratory, she slipped her pistol into her muff and 
set out alone, not waiting for Ilse, who, with John 
Estridge, was to have met her after dinner at her house, 
and, as usual, accompany her to the place selected. 

But they knew where she was to speak, and she did 
not doubt they would turn up sooner or later at the 
rendezvous. 

All that day the dull, foreboding feeling had been 
assailing her at intervals, and she had been unable to 
free herself entirely from the vague depression. 

The day had been grey; when she left the house a 
drizzle had begun to wet the flagstones, and every 
lamp-post was now hooded with ghostly iridescence. 

She walked because she had need of exercise, not even 
deigning to unfurl her umbrella against the mist which 
spun silvery ovals over every electric globe along Fifth 
Avenue, and now shrouded every building above the 
fourth story in a cottony ocean of fog. 

When finally she turned westward, the dark obscurity 
of the cross-street seemed to stretch away into infinite 
night and she hurried a little, scarcely realising why. 

There did not seem to be a soul in sight — she noticed 
that — yet suddenly, half-way down the street, she dis- 
covered a man walking at her elbow, his rubber-shod 
feet making no sound on the wet walk. 

Palla had never before been annoyed by such atten- 
tions in New York, yet she Supposed it must be the 
reason for the man’s insolence. 

298 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


She hastened her steps ; he moved as swiftly. 

“Look here,” he said, “I know who you are, and 
where you’re going. And we’ve stood just about 
enough from you and your friends.” 

In the quick revulsion from annoyance and disgust 
to a very lively flash of fright, Palla involuntarily 
slackened her pace and widened the distance between her 
and this unknown. 

“You better right- about-face and go home!” he said 
quietly. “You talk too damn much with your face. 
And we’re going to stop you. See?” 

At that her flash of fear turned to anger: 

“Try it,” she said hotly; and hurried on, her hand 
clutching the pistol in her wet muff, her eyes fixed on 
the unknown man. 

“I’ve a mind to dust you good and plenty right here,” 
he said. “Quit your running, now, and beat it back 
again — ” His vise-like grip was on her left arm, almost 
jerking her off her feet; and the next moment she 
struck him with her loaded pistol full in the face. 

As he veered away, she saw the seam open from his 
cheek bone to his chin — saw the white face suddenly 
painted with wet scarlet. 

The sight of the blood made her sick, but she kept 
her pistol levelled, backing away westward all the while. 

There was an iron railing near; he went over and 
leaned against it as though stupefied. 

And all the while she continued to retreat until, 
behind her, his dim shape merged into the foggy dark. 

Then Palla turned and ran. And she was still breath- 
ing fast and unevenly when she came to that perfect 
blossom of vulgarity and apotheosis of all American 
sham — Broadway — where in the raw glare from a mil- 
lion lights the senseless crowds swept north and south. 

299 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


And here, where Jew-manager and gentile ruled the 
histrionic destiny of the United States — here where 
art, letters, service, industry, business had each de- 
veloped its own species of human prostitute — two 
muddy-brained torrents of humanity poured in opposite 
directions, crowding, shoving, shuffling along in the end- 
less, hopeless Hunt for Happiness. 

She had made, in the beginning of her street-corner 
career, arrangements with a neighbouring boot-black to 
furnish one soap-box on demand at a quarter of a 
dollar rent for every evening. 

She extracted the quarter from her purse and paid 
the boy ; carried the soap-box herself to the curb ; and, 
with that invariable access of fright which attacked her 
at such moments, mounted it to face the first few people 
who halted out of curiosity to see what else she meant 
to do. 

Columns of passing umbrellas hid her so that not 
many people noticed her; but gradually that perennial 
audience of shabby opportunists which always gathers 
anywhere from nowhere, ringed her soap-box. And 
Palla began to speak in the drizzling rain. 

For some time there were no interruptions, no jeers, 
no doubtful pleasantries. But when it became more 
plain to the increasing crowd that this smartly though 
simply gowned young woman had come to Broadway 
in the rain for the purpose of protesting against all 
forms of violence, including the right of the working 
people to strike, ugly remarks became audible, and now 
and then a menacing word was flung at her, or some 
clenched hand insulted her and amid a restless murmur 
growing rougher all the time. 

Once, to prove her point out of the mouth of the pro- 
letariat itself, she quoted from Rosa Luxemburg; and a 
300 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


well-dressed man shouldered his way toward her and in 
a low voice gave her the lie. 

The painful colour dyed her face, but she went on 
calmly, explaining the different degrees and extremes 
of socialism, revealing how the abused term had been 
used as camouflage by the party committed to the utter 
annihilation of everything worth living for. 

And again, to prove her point, she quoted: 

“Socialism does not mean the convening of Parlia- 
ments and the enactment of laws ; it means the over- 
throw of the ruling classes with all the brutality at the 
disposal of the proletariat.” 

The same well-dressed man interrupted again: 

“Say, who pays you to come here and hand out that 
Wall Street stuff?” 

“Nobody pays me,” she replied patiently. 

“All right, then, if that’s true why don’t you tell us 
something about the interests and the profiteers and 
all them dirty games the capitalists is rigging up? 
Tell us about the guy who wants us to pay eight cents 
to ride on his damned cars ! Tell us about the geezers 
who soak us for food and coal and clothes and rent! 

“You stand there chirping to us about Love and 
Service and how we oughta give. Give! Jesus! — we 
ain’t got anything left to give. They ain’t anything to 
give our wives or our children, — no, nor there ain’t 
enough left to feed our own faces or pay for a patch 
on our pants! Give ? Hell! The interests took it. 
And you stand there twittering about Love and Ser- 
vice ! We oughta serve ’em a brick on the neck and love 
’em with a black-jack!” 

“How far would that get you?” asked Palla gently. 

“As far as their pants-pockets anyway !” 

301 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


“And when you empty those, who is to employ and 
pay you?” 

“Don’t worry,” he sneered, “we’ll do the employing 
after that.” 

“And will your employees do to you some day what 
you did to your employers with a black-jack?” 

The crowd laughed, but her heckler shook his fist 
at her and yelled: 

“Ain’t I telling you that we’ll be sitting in these 
damn gold-plated houses and payin’ wages to these 
here fat millionaires for blackin’ our shoes?” 

“You mean that when Bolshevism rules there are to 
be rich and poor just the same as at present?” 

Again the crowd laughed. 

“All right !” bawled the man, waving both arms above 
his head, “ — yes, I do mean it! It will be our turn 
then. Why not? What do we want to split fifty- 
fifty with them soft, fat millionaires for? Nix on that 
stuff ! It will be hog-killing time, and you can bet your 
thousand-dollar wrist watch, Miss, that there’ll be some 
killin’ in little old New York!” 

He had backed out of the circle and disappeared in 
the crowd before Palla could attempt further reasoning 
with him. So she merely shook her head in gentle dis- 
approval and dissent: 

“What is the use,” she said, “of exchanging one form 
of tyranny for another? Why destroy the autocracy 
of the capitalist and erect on its ruins the autocracy 
of the worker? 

“How can class distinctions be eradicated by fanning 
class-hatred? In a battle against all dictators, why 
proclaim dictatorship — even of the proletariat? 

“All oppression is hateful, whether exercised by God 
or man — whether the oppressor be that murderous, 
302 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


stupid, treacherous, tyrannical bully in the Old Testa- 
ment, miscalled God, or whether the oppressor be the 
proletariat which screamed for the blood of Jesus 
Christ and got it ! 

“Free heart, free mind, free soul! — anything less 
means servitude, not service — hatred, not love!” 

A man in the outskirts of the crowd shouted: “Say, 
you’re some rag-chewer, little girl ! Go to it !” 

She laughed, then glanced at her wrist watch. 

There were a few more words she might say before 
the time she allowed herself had expired, and she found 
courage to go on, striving to explain to the shifting 
knot of people that the battle which now threatened 
civilisation was the terrible and final fight between 
Order and Disorder and that, under inexorable laws 
■which could never change, order meant life and sur- 
vival ; disorder chaos and death for all living things. 

A few cheered her as she bade them good-night, picked 
up her soap-box and carried it back to her boot-black 
friend, who inhabited a shack built against the family- 
entrance side of a saloon. 

She was surprised that Ilse and John Estridge had 
not appeared — could scarcely understand it, as she 
made her way toward a taxicab. 

For, in view of the startling occurrence earlier in the 
evening, and the non-appearance of Ilse and Estridge, 
Palla had decided to return in a taxi. 

The incident — the boldness of the unknown man and 
vicious brutality of his attitude, and also a sickening 
recollection of her own action and his bloody face — 
had really shocked her, even more than she was aware of 
at the time. 

She felt tired and strained, and a trifle faint now, 
where she lay back, swaying there on her seat, her 
303 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


pistol clutched inside her muff, as the ramshackle vehicle 
lurched its noisy way eastward. And always that dull 
sense of something sinister impending — that indefinable 
apprehension — remained with her. And she gazed 
darkly out on the dark streets, possessed by a melan- 
choly which she did not attempt to analyse. 

Yet, partly it came from the ruptured comradeship 
which always haunted her mind, partly because of Ilse 
and the uncertainty of what might happen to her — 
may have happened already for all Palla knew — and 
partly because — although she did not realise it — in the 
profound deeps of her girl’s being she was vaguely 
conscious of something latent which seemed to have lain 
hidden there for a long, long time — something inert, 
inexorable, indestructible, which, if it ever stirred from 
its intense stillness, must be reckoned with in years to 
come. 

She made no effort to comprehend what this thing 
might be — if, indeed, it really existed — no pains to 
analyse it or to meditate over the vague indications 
of its presence. 

She seemed merely to be aware of something inde- 
finable concealed in the uttermost depths of her. 

It was Doubt, unborn. 

The taxi drew up before her house. Rain was falling 
heavily, as she ran up the steps — a cold rain through 
which a few wet snowflakes slanted. 

Her maid heard the rattle of her night-key and 
came to relieve her of her wet things, and to say that 
Miss Westgard had telephoned and had left a number 
to be called as soon as Miss Dumont returned. 

The slip of paper bore John Estridge’s telephone 

304 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


number and Palla seated herself at her desk and called 
it. 

Almost immediately she heard Use’s voice on the wire. 

“What is the matter, dear?” inquired Palla with the 
slightest shiver of that premonition which had haunted 
her all day. 

But Use’s voice was cheerful: “We were so sorry not 
to go with you this evening, darling, but J ack is feeling 
so queer that he’s turned in and I’ve sent for a phy- 
sician.” 

“Shall I come around?” asked Palla. 

“Oh, no,” replied Ilse calmly, “but I’ve an idea Jack 
may need a nurse — perhaps two.” 

“What is it?” faltered Palla. 

“I don’t know. But he is running a high temperature 
and he says that it feels as though something were 
wrong with his appendix. 

“You see Jack is almost a physician himself, so if 
it really is acute appendicitis we must know as soon 
as possible.” 

“Is there anything I could do?” pleaded Palla. 
“Darling, I do so want to be of use if ” 

“I’ll let you know, dear. There isn’t anything so far.” 

“Are you going to stay there to-night?” 

“Of course,” replied Ilse calmly. “Tell me, Palla, 
how did the soap-box arguments go?” 

“Not very well. I was heckled. I’m such a wretched 
public speaker, Ilse; — I can never remember what re- 
joinders to make until it’s too late.” 

She did not mention her encounter with the unknown 
man; Ilse had enough to occupy her. 

They chatted a few moments longer, then Ilse prom- 
ised to call her if necessary, and said good-night. 

A little after midnight Palla’s telephone rang beside 

305 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


her bed and she started upright with a pang of fear 
and groped for the instrument. 

“Jack is seriously ill,” came the level voice of Ilse. 
“We have taken him to the Memorial Hospital in one 
of their ambulances.” 

“W — what is it?” asked Palla. 

“They say it is pneumonia.” 

“Oh, Ilse! ” 

“I’m not afraid. Jack is in magnificent physical 
condition. He is too splendid not to win the fight. 

. And I shall be with him. ... I shall not 
let him lose.” 

“Tell me what I can do, darling!” 

“Nothing — except love us both.” 

“I do— I do indeed ” 

“Both, Palla!” 

“Y— yes.” 

“Ho you understand?” 

“Oh, I — I think I do. And I do love you — love you 
both — devotedly ” 

“You must, now. ... I am going home to get 
some things. Then I shall go to the hospital. You 
can call me there until he is convalescent.” 

“Will they let you stay there?” 

“I have volunteered for general work. They are 
terribly short-handed and they are glad to have me.” 

“I’ll come to-morrow,” said Palla. 

“No. Wait. . . . Good-night, my darling.” 


CHAPTER XXI 


A S a mischievous caricaturist, in the beginning, 
draws a fairly good portrait of his victim and 
then gradually habituates his public to a series 
of progressively exaggerated extravagances, so prog- 
ressed the programme of the Bolsheviki in America, 
revealing little by little their final conception of liberty 
and equality in the bloody and distorted monster which 
they had now evolved, and which they publicly owned 
as their ideal emblem. 

In the Red Flag Club, Sondheim shouted that a Red 
Republic was impossible because it admitted on an 
equality the rich and well-to-do. 

Karl Kastner, more cynical, coolly preached the au- 
tocracy of the worker; told his listeners frankly that 
there would always be masters and servants in the 
world, and asked them which they preferred to be. 

With the new year came sporadic symptoms of 
unrest; — strikes, unwarranted confiscations by Govern- 
ment, increasingly bad service in public utilities con- 
trolled by Government, loose talk in a contemptible 
Congress, looser gabble among those who witlessly lent 
themselves to German or Bolshevik propaganda — or 
both — by repeating stories of alleged differences be- 
tween America and England, America and France, 
America and Italy. 

The hen-brained — a small minority — misbehaved as 
usual whenever the opportunity came to do the wrong 

307 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


thing; the meanest and most contemptible partisanship 
since the shameful era of the carpet-bagger prevailed 
in a section of the Republic where the traditions of 
great men and great deeds had led the nation to expect 
nobler things. 

For the same old hydra seemed to be still alive on 
earth, lifting, by turns, its separate heads of envy, 
intolerance, bigotry and greed. Ignorance, robed with 
authority, legally robbed those comfortably off. 

The bleat of the pacifist was heard in the land. 
Those who had once chanted in sanctimonious chorus, 
“He kept us out of war,” now sang sentimental l^mns 
invoking mercy and forgiveness for the crucifiers of 
children and the rapers of women, who licked their lips 
furtively and leered at the imbecile choir. Represen- 
tatives of a great electorate vaunted their patriotism 
and proudly repeated: “We forced him into war !” 
Whereas they themselves had been kicked headlong 
into it by a press and public at the end of its martyred 
patience. 

There appeared to be, so far, no business revival. 
Prosperity was penalised, taxed to the verge of black- 
mail, constantly suspected and admonished; and the 
Congressional Bolsheviki were gradually breaking the 
neck of legitimate enterprise everywhere throughout 
the Republic. 

And everywhere over the world the crimson tide crept 
almost imperceptibly a little higher every day. 

Toward the middle of January the fever which had 
burnt John Estridge for a week fell a degree or two. 

Palla, who had called twice a day at the Memorial 
Hospital, was seated that morning in a little room 
308 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


near the disinfecting plant, talking to Ilse, who had 
just laid aside her mask. 

“You look rather ill yourself,” said Ilse in her cheery, 
even voice. “Is anything worrying you, darling?” 

“Yes. . . . You are.” 

“I!” exclaimed the girl, really astonished. “Why?” 

“Sometimes,” murmured Palla, “my anxiety makes 
me almost sick.” 

“Anxiety about me! ” 

“You know why,” whispered Palla. 

A bright flush stained Use’s face: she said calmly: 

“But our creed is broad enough to include all things 
beautiful and good.” 

Palla shrank as though she had been struck, and sat 
staring out of the narrow window. 

Ilse lifted a basket of soiled linen and carried it 
away. When, presently, she returned to take away 
another basket, she inquired whether Palla had made 
up her quarrel with Jim Shotwell, and Palla shook her 
head. 

“Do you really suppose Marya has made mischief 
between you?” asked Ilse curiously. 

“Oh, I don’t know, Ilse,” said the girl listlessly. “I 
don’t know what it is that seems to be so wrong with 
the world — with everybody — with me ” 

She rose nervously, bade Ilse adieu, and went out 
without turning her head — perhaps because her brown 
eyes had suddenly blurred with tears. 

Half way to Red Cross headquarters she passed the 
Hotel Rajah. And why she did it she had no very 
clear idea, but she turned abruptly and entered the 
gorgeous lobby, went to the desk, and sent up her name 
to Marya Lanois. 


309 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


It appeared, presently, that Miss Lanois was at home 
and would receive her in her apartment. 

The accolade was perfunctory: Palla’s first glance 
informed her that Marya had grown a trifle more 
svelte since they had met — more brilliant in her dis- 
tinctive coloration. There was a tawny beauty about 
the girl that almost blazed from her hair and delicately 
sanguine skin and lips. 

They seated themselves, and Marya lighted the cigar- 
ette which Palla had refused; and they fell into the 
animated, gossiping conversation characteristic of such 
reunions. 

“Vanya?” repeated Marya, smiling, “no, I have not 
seen him. That is quite finished, you see. But I hope 
he is well. Do you happen to know?” 

“He seems — changed. But he is working hard, which 
is always best for the unhappy. And he and his some- 
what vociferous friend, Mr. Wilding, are very busy 
preparing for their Philadelphia concert.” 

“Wilding,” repeated Marya, as though swallowing 
something distasteful. “He was the last straw! But 
tell me, Palla, what are you doing these jolly days of 
the new year?” 

“Nothing. . . . Red Cross, canteen, club — and re- 
cently I go twice a day to the Memorial Hospital.” 

“Why?” 

“John Estridge is ill there.” 

“What is the matter with him?” 

“Pneumonia.” 

“Oh. I am so sorry for Ilse ! ” Her eyes rested 

intently on Palla’s for a moment ; then she smiled subtly, 
as though sharing with Palla some occult under- 
standing. 

Palla’s face whitened a little: “I want to ask you 

310 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


a question, Marya. . . . You know our belief — 

concerning life in general. . . . Tell me — since 

your separation from Yanya, do you still believe in 
that creed?” 

“Do I still believe in my own personal liberty to do 
as I choose? Of course.” 

“From the moral side?” 

“Moral!” mocked Marya, “ — What are morals? 
Artificial conventions accidentally established! Hap- 
hazard folkways of ancient peoples whose very origin 
has been forgotten ! What is moral in India is im- 
moral in England: what is right in China is wrong in 
America. It’s purely a matter of local folkways — ra- 
cial customs — as to whether one is or is not immoral. 

“Ethics apply to the Greek Ethos; morals to the 
Latin Mores — moeurs in French, sitte in German, 
custom in English ; — and all mean practically the same 
thing — metaphysical hair-splitters to the contrary — 
which is simply this: all beliefs are local, and local 
customs or morals are the result. Therefore, they don’t 
worry me.” 

Palla sat with her troubled eyes on the careless, 
garrulous, half-smiling Russian girl, and trying to 
follow with an immature mind the half-baked philoso- 
phy offered for her consumption. 

She said hesitatingly, almost shyly: “I’ve wondered 
a little, Marya, how it ever happened that such an 
institution as marriage became practically univer- 
sal ” 

“Marriage isn’t an institution,” exclaimed Marya 
smilingly. “The family, which existed long before 
marriage, is the institution, because it has a definite 
structure which marriage hasn’t. 

“Marriage always has been merely a locally varying 

311 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


mode of sex association. No laws can control it. Local 
rules merely try to regulate the various manners of 
entering into a marital state, the obligations and per- 
sonal rights of the sexes involved. What really con- 
trols two people who have entered into such a relation 
is local opinion ” 

She snapped her fingers and tossed aside her cigar- 
ette: “You and I happen to be, locally, in the minority 
with our opinions, that’s all.” 

Palla rose and walked slowly to the door. “Have 
you seen Jim recently?” she managed to say carelessly. 

Marya waited for her to turn before replying: 
“Haven’t you seen him?” she asked with the leisurely 
malice of certainty. 

“No, not for a long while,” replied Palla, facing 
with a painful flush this miserable crisis to which her 
candour had finally committed her. “We had a little 
difference. . . . Have you seen him lately?” 

Marya’s sympathy flickered swift as a dagger: 

“What a shame for him to behave so childishly !” she 
cried. “I shall scold him soundly. He’s like an infant 
— that boy — the way he sulks if you deny him any- 
thing — ” She checked herself, laughed in a confused 
way which confessed and defied. 

Palla’s fixed smile was still stamped on her rigid 
lips as she made her adieux. Then she went out with 
death in her heart. 

At the Red Cross his mother exchanged a few words 
with her at intervals, as usual, during the seance. 

The conversation drifted toward the subject of relig- 
ious orders in Russia, and Mrs. Shotwell asked her how 
it was that she came to begin a novitiate in a country 
where Catholic orders had, she understood, been for- 
312 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


bidden permission to establish themselves in the realm 
of the Greek church. 

Palla explained in her sweet, colourless voice that the 
Czar had permitted certain religious orders to estab- 
lish themselves — very few, however, — the number of 
nuns of all orders not exceeding five hundred. Also 
she explained that they were forbidden to make converts 
from the orthodox religion, which was why the Empress 
had sternly refused the pleading of the little Grand 
Duchess. 

“I do not think,” added Palla, “that the Bolsheviki 
have left any Catholic nuns in Russia, unless perhaps 
they have spared the Sisters of Mercy. But I hear that 
non-cloistered orders like the Dominicans, and clois- 
tered orders such as the Carmelites and Ursulines have 
been driven away. ... I don’t know whether this 
is true.” 

Mrs. Shotwell, her eyes on her flying needle, said 
casually : “Have you never felt the desire to reconsider 
— to return to your novitiate?” 

The girl, bending low over her work, drew a deep, 
still breath. 

“Yes,” she said, “it has occurred to me.” 

“Does it still appeal to you at times?” 

The girl lifted her honest eyes: “In life there are 
moments when any refuge appeals.” 

“Refuge from what?” asked Helen quietly. 

Palla did not evade the question: “From the unkind- 
ness of life,” she said. “But I have concluded that 
such a motive for cloistered life is a cowardly one.” 

“Was that your motive when you took the white 
veil?” 

“No, not then. ... It seemed to be an over- 

313 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


whelming need for service and adoration. . . . It’s 

strange how faiths change though need remains.” 

“You still feel that need?” 

“Of course,” said the girl simply. 

“I see. Your clubs and other service give you what 
you require to satisfy you and make you happy and 
contented.” 

As Palla made no reply, Helen glanced at her askance ; 
and caught a fleeting glimpse of tragedy in this girl’s still 
face — the face of a cloistered nun burnt white — purged 
utterly of all save the mystic passion of the spirit. 

The face altered immediately, and colour came into 
it; and her slender hands were steady as she turned 
her bandage and cut off the thread. 

What thoughts concerning this girl were in her mind, 
Helen could neither entirely comprehend nor analyse. 
At moments a hot hatred for the girl passed over her 
like flame — anger because of what she was doing to her 
only son. 

For Jim had changed ; and it was love for this woman 
that had changed him — which had made of him the 
silent, listless man whose grey face haunted his mother’s 
dreams. 

That he, dissipating all her hopes of him, had fallen 
in love with Palla Dumont was enough unhappiness, 
it seemed; but that this girl should have found it 
possible to refuse him — that seemed to Helen a mon- 
strous thing. 

And even were Jim able to forget the girl and free 
himself from this exasperating unhappiness which almost 
maddened his mother, still she must always afterward 
remember with bitterness the girl who had rejected her 
only son. 

Not since Palla had telephoned on that unfortunate 

314 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


night had she or Helen ever mentioned Jim. The 
mother, expecting his obsession to wear itself out, had 
been only too glad to approve the rupture. 

But recently, at moments, her courage had weakened 
when, evening after evening, she had watched her son 
where he sat so silent, listless, his eyes dull and remote 
and the book forgotten on his knees. 

A steady resentment for all this change in her son 
possessed Helen, varied by flashes of impulse to seize 
Palla and shake her into comprehension of her respon- 
sibility — of her astounding stupidity, perhaps. 

Not that she wanted her for a daughter-in-law. 
She wanted Elorn. But now she was beginning to 
understand that it never would be Elom Sharrow. 
And — save when the change in Jim worried her too 
deeply — she remained obstinately determined that he 
should not bring this girl into the Shotwell family. 

And the amazing paradox was revealed in the fact 
that Palla fascinated her; that she believed her to be 
as fine as she was perverse ; as honest as she was beau- 
tiful; as spiritually chaste as she knew her to be men- 
tally and bodily untainted by anything ignoble. 

This, and because Palla was the woman to whom 
her son’s unhappiness was wholly due, combined to 
exercise an uncanny fascination on Helen, so that she 
experienced a constant and haunting desire to be near 
the girl, where she could see her and hear her voice. 

At moments, even, she experienced a vague desire to 
intervene — do something to mitigate Jim’s misery — 
yet realising all the while she did not desire Palla to 
relent. 

As for Palla, she was becoming too deeply worried 
over the darkening aspects of life to care what Helen 
315 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


thought, even if she had divined the occult trend of 
her mind toward herself. 

One thing after another seemed to crowd more 
threateningly upon her; — Jim’s absence, Marya’s atti- 
tude, and the certainty, now, that she saw Jim ; — 
and then the grave illness of John Estridge and her 
apprehensions regarding Ilse; and the increasing diffi- 
culties of club problems ; and the brutality and hatred 
which were becoming daily more noticeable in the oppo- 
sition which she and Ilse were encountering. 

After a tiresome day, Palla left a new Hostess 
House which she had aided to establish, and took a 
Fifth Avenue bus, too weary to walk home. 

The day had been clear and sunny, and she wondered 
dully why it had left with her the impression of grey 
skies. 

Dusk came before she arrived at her house. She went 
into her unlighted living room, and threw herself on 
the lounge, lying with eyes closed and the back of one 
gloved hand across her temples. 

When a servant came to turn up the lamp, Palla 
had bitten her lip till the blood flecked her white glove. 
She sat up, declined to have tea, and, after the maid 
had departed, she remained seated, her teeth busy with 
her under lip again, her eyes fixed on space. 

After a long while her eyes swerved to note the 
clock and what its gilt hands indicated. 

And she seemed to arrive at a conclusion, for she 
went to her bed-room, drew a bath, and rang for her 
maid. 

“I want my rose evening gown,” she said. “It needs 
a stitch or two where I tore it dancing.” 

316 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


At six, not being dressed yet, she put on a belted 
chamber robe and trotted into the living room, as con- 
fidently as though she had no doubts concerning what 
she was about to do. 

It seemed to take a long while for the operator to 
make the connection, and Palla’s hand trembled a little 
where it held the receiver tightly against her ear. 
When, presently, a servant answered: 

“Please say to him that a client wishes to speak to 
him regarding an investment.” 

Finally she heard his voice saying: “This is Mr. 
James Shotwell Junior; who is it wishes to speak to 
me ?” 

“A client,” she faltered, “ — who desires to — to 
participate with you in some plan for the purpose of 
— of improving our mutual relationship.” 

“Palla.” She could scarcely hear his voice. 

“I — I’m so unhappy, Jim. Could you come to- 
night ?” 

He made no answer. 

“I suppose you haven’t heard that Jack Est ridge 
is very ill?” she added. 

“No. What is the trouble?” 

“Pneumonia. He’s a little better to-night.” 

She heard him utter : “That’s terrible. That’s a bad 
business.” Then to her : “Where is he ?” 

She told him. He said he’d call at the hospital. 
But he said nothing about seeing her. 

“I wondered,” came her wistful voice, “whether, per- 
haps, you would dine here alone with me this evening.” 

“Why do you ask me?” 

“Because — I — our last quarrel was so bitter — and 
I feel the hurt of it yet. It hurts even physically, 
Jim.” 


317 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


“I did not mean to do such a thing to you.” 

“No, I know you didn’t. But that numb sort of 
pain is always there. I can’t seem to get rid of it, no 
matter what I do.” 

“Are you very busy still?” 

“Yes. ... I saw — Marya — to-day.” 

“Is that unusual?” he asked indifferently. 

“Yes. I haven’t seen her since — since she and Vanya 
separated.” 

“Oh! Have they separated?” he asked with such 
unfeigned surprise that the girl’s heart leaped wildly. 

“Didn’t you know it? Didn’t Marya tell you?” she 
asked shivering with happiness. 

“I haven’t seen her since I saw you,” he replied. 

Palla’s right hand flew to her breast and rested there 
while she strove to control her voice. Then: 

“Please, Jim, let us forgive and break bread again 
together. I — ” she drew a deep, unsteady breath — “I 
can’t tell you how our separation has made me feel. 
I don’t quite know what it’s done to me, either. Per- 
haps I can understand if I see you — if I could only 
see you again ” 

There ensued a silence so protracted that a shaft of 
fear struck through her. Then his voice, pleasantly 
collected : 

“I’ll be around in a few minutes.” 

She was scared speechless when the bell rang — when 
she heard his unhurried step on the stair. 

Before he was announced by the maid, however, she 
had understood one problem in the scheme of things — 
realised it as she rose from the lounge and held out 
her slender hand. 

He took it and kept it. The maid retired. 

318 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


“Well, Palla,” he said. 

“Well,” she said, rather breathlessly, “ — I know 
now.” 

His voice and face seemed amiable and lifeless; his 
eyes, too, remained dull and incurious ; but he said : 
“I don’t think I understand. What is it you know?” 

“Shall I tell you?” 

“If you wish.” 

His pleasant, listless manner chilled her; she hesi- 
tated, then turned away, withdrawing her hand. 

When she had seated herself on the sofa he dropped 
down beside her in his old place. She lighted a cigar- 
ette for him. 

“Tell me about poor old Jack,” he said in a low 
voice. 

Their dinner was a pleasant but subdued affair. 
Afterward she played for him — interrupted once by 
a telephone call from Use, who said that John’s tem- 
perature had risen a degree and the only thing to do was 
to watch him every second. But she refused Palla’s offer 
to join her at the hospital, saying that she and the 
night nurse were sufficient; and the girl went slowly 
back to the piano. 

But, somehow, even that seemed too far away from 
her lover — or the man who once had been her avowed 
lover. And after idling with the keys for a few minutes 
she came back to the lounge where he was seated. 

He looked up from his revery: “This is most com- 
fortable, Palla,” he said with a slight smile. 

“Do you like it?” 

“Of course.” 

“You need not go away at all — if it pleases you.” 
Her voice was so indistinct that for a moment he did 
319 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


not comprehend what she had said. Then he turned 
and looked at her. Both were pale enough now. 

“That is what — what I was going to tell you,” she 
said. “Is it too late?” 

“Too late!” 

“To say that I am — in love with you.” 

He flushed heavily and looked at her in a dazed way. 

“What do you mean ?” he said. 

“I mean — if you want me — I am — am not afraid any 
more ” 

They had both risen instinctively, as though to face 
something vital. She said: 

“Don’t ask me to submit to any degrading ceremony. 
. . . I love you enough.” 

He said slowly: “Do you realise what you say? 
You are crazy! You and your socialist friends pre- 
tend to be fighting anarchy. You preach* against 
Bolshevism! You warn the world that the Crimson 
Tide is rising. And every word you utter swells it! 
You are the anarchists yourselves! You are the Bol- 
sheviki of the world! You come bringing disorder 
where there is order; you substitute unproven theory 
for proven practice! 

“Like the hun, you come to impose your will on a 
world already content with its own God and its own 
belief! And that is autocracy; and autocracy is what 
you say you oppose! 

“I tell you and your friends that it was not wolves 
that were pupped in the sand of the shaggy Prussian 
forests when the first Hohenzollern was dropped. It 
was swine! Swine were farrowed; — not even sanglier, 
but decadent domestic swine; — when Wilhelm and his 
degenerate litter came out to root up Europe! And 
they were the first real Bolsheviki!” 

320 






THE CRIMSON TIDE 


He turned and began to stride to and fro; his pale, 
sunken face deeply shadowed, his hands clenching and 
unclenching. 

“What in God’s name,” he said fiercely, “are women 
like you doing to us! What do you suppose happens 
to such a man as I when the girl he loves tells him 
she cares only to be his mistress! What hope is there 
left in him? — what sense, what understanding, what 
faith? 

“You don’t have to tell me that the Crimson Tide 
is rising. I saw it in the Argonne. I wish to God I 
were back there and the hun was still resisting. I wish 
I had never lived to come back here and see what de- 
moralisation is threatening my own country from that 
cursed germ of wilful degeneracy bom in the Prussian 
twilight, fed in Russian desolation, infecting the whole 
world ” 

His voice died in his throat; he walked swiftly past 
her, turned at the threshold: 

“I’ve known three of you,” he said, “ — you and Ilse 
and Marya. I’ve seen a lot of your associates and 
acquaintances who profess your views. And I’ve seen 
enough.” 

He hesitated; then when he could control his voice 
again : 

“It’s bad enough when a woman refuses marriage 
to a man she does not love. That man is going to be 
unhappy. But have you any idea what happens to 
him when the girl he loves, and who says she cares 
for him, refuses marriage? 

“It was terrible even when you cared for me only a 
little. But — but now — do you know what I think of 
your creed? I hate it as you hated the beasts who slew 
your friend! Damn your creed! To hell with it!” 
321 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


She covered her face with both hands : there was a 
noise like thunder in her brain. 

She heard the door close sharply in the hall below. 
This was the end. 


CHAPTER XXII 


S HE felt a trifle weak. In her ears there lingered 
a dull, confused sensation, like the echo of things 
still falling. Something had gone very wrong 
with the scheme of nature. Even beneath her feet, 
now, the floor seemed unsteady, unreliable. 

A half-darkness dimmed her eyes; she laid one slim 
hand on the sofa-back and seated herself, fighting in- 
stinctively for consciousness. 

She sat there for a long while. The swimming faint- 
ness passed away. An intense stillness seemed to invade 
her, and the room, and the street outside. And for 
vast distances beyond. Half hours and hours rang 
clearly through the silence from the mantel-clock. So 
still was the place that a sheaf of petals falling from 
a fading rose on the piano seemed to fill the room with 
ghostly rustling. 

This, then, was the finish. Love had ended. Youth 
itself was ending, too, here in the dead silence of this 
lamplit room. 

There remained nothing more. Except that ever 
darkening horizon where, at the earth’s ends, those 
grave shapes of cloud closed out the vista of remote 
skies. 

There seemed to be no shelter anywhere in the vast 
nakedness of the scheme of things — no shadow under 
which to crouch — no refuge. 

323 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


Dim visions of cloistered forms, moving in a blessed 
twilight, grew and assumed familiar shape amid the 
dumb desolation reigning in her brain. The spectral 
temptation passed, repassed; processional, recessional 
glided by, timed by her heart’s low rhythm. 

But, little by little, she came to understand that there 
was no refuge even there; no mystic glow in the dark 
corridors of her own heart; no source of light save 
from the candles glimmering on the high altar; no 
aureole above the crucifix. 

Always, everywhere, there seemed to be no shelter, 
no roof above the scheme of things. 

She heard the telephone. As she slowly rose from 
the sofa she noted the hour as it sounded; — four 
o’clock in the morning. 

A man’s voice was speaking — an unhurried, precise, 
low-pitched, monotonous voice: 

“This — is — the — Memorial Hospital. Doctor — 
Willis — speaking. Mr. — J ohn — Estridge — died — at — 
ten minutes — to — four. Miss Westgard — wishes — to — 
go — to — your — residence — and — remain — over — night 
— if — convenient. . . . Thank you. Miss — West- 

gard — wdll — go — to — you — immediately. Good-night.” 

Palla rose from her chair in the unfurnished drawing- 
room, went out into the hall, admitted Ilse, then locked 
and chained the two front doors. 

When she turned around, trembling and speechless, 
they kissed. But it was only Palla’s mouth that 
trembled; and when they mounted the stairs it was 
Use’s arm that supported Palla. 

Except that her eyes were heavy and seemed smeared 

824 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


Mith deep violet under the lower lids, Use did not appear 
very much changed. 

She took off her furs, hat, and gloves and sat down 
beside Palla. Her voice was quite clear and steady; 
there appeared to be no sign of shock or of grief, save 
for a passing tremor of her tired eyes now and then. 

She said: “We talked a little together, Jack and I, 
after I telephoned to you. 

“That was the last. His hand began to burn in 
mine steadily, like something on fire. And when^ pre-, 
sently, I found he was not asleep, I motioned to the 
night nurse. 

“The change seemed to come suddenly; she went to 
find one of the internes; I sat with my hand on his 
pulse. . . . There were three physicians there. 

. . . Jack was not conscious after midnight.” 

Palla’s lips and throat were dry and aching and her 
voice almost inaudible: 

“Darling,” she whispered, “ — darling — if I could 
give him back to you and take his place! ” 

Ilse smiled, but her heavy eyelids quivered: 

“The scheme of things is so miserably patched to- 
gether. . . . Except for the indestructible divinity 

within each one of us, it all would be so hopeless. 

. . . I had never been able to imagine Jack and 

Death together — ” She looked up at the clock. “He 
was alive only an hour ago. . . . Isn’t it strange — ” 

“Oh, Ilse, Ilse! I wish this God who deals out such 
wickedness and misery had struck me down instead!” 

Neither seemed to notice the agnostic paradox in this 
bitter cry wrung from a young girl’s grief. 

Ilse closed her eyes as though to rest them, and sat 
so, her steady hand on Palla’s. And, so resting, said 
in her unfaltering voice: 

325 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


“Jack, of course, lives. . But it seems a long 

time to wait to see him.” 

“Jack lives,” whispered Palla. 

“Of course. . . . Only — it seems so long a time to 
wait. . . . I wanted to show him — how kind love has 

been to us — how still more wonderful love could have 
been to us. . . . for I could have borne him many 

children. . . . And now I shall bear but one.” 

After a silence, Palla lifted her eyes. In them the 
shadow of terror still lingered; there was not an atom 
of colour in her face. 

Ilse slept that night, though Palla scarcely closed 
her eyes. Dreadful details of the coming day rose up 
to haunt her — all the ghastly routine necessary before 
the dead lie finally undisturbed by the stir and move- 
ment of many footsteps — the coming and going of the 
living. 

Because what they called pneumonia was the Black 
Death of the ancient East, they had warned Ilse to 
remain aloof from that inert thing that had been her 
lover. So she did not look upon his face again. 

There were relatives of sorts at the chapel. None 
spoke to her. The sunshine on the flower-covered 
casket was almost spring like. 

And in the cemetery, too, there was no snow; and, 
under the dead grass, everywhere new herbage tinted 
the earth with delicate green. 

Ilse returned from the cemetery with Palla. Her 
black veil and garments made of her gold hair and 
blond skin a vivid beauty that grief had not subdued. 

That deathless courage which was part of her seemed 

326 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


to sustain the clear glow of her body’s vigour as it 
upheld her dauntless spirit. 

“Did you see Jim in the chapel?” she asked quietly. 

Palla nodded. She had seen Marya, also. After a 
little while Ilse said gravely : 

“I think it no treachery to creed when one submits 
to the equally vital belief of another. I think our creed 
includes submission, because that also is part of love.” 

Palla lifted her face in flushed surprise: 

“Is there any compromising with truth?” she asked. 

“I think love is the greatest truth. What difference 
does it make how we love?” 

“Does not our example count? You had the courage 
of your belief. Do you counsel me to subscribe to 
what I do not believe by acquiescing in it?” 

Ilse closed her sea-blue eyes as though fatigued. She 
said dreamily: 

“I think that to believe in love and mating and the 
bearing of children is the only important belief in the 
world. But under what local laws you go about doing 
these things seems to be of minor importance, — a mat- 
ter, I should say, of personal inclination.” 

Ilse wished to go home. That is, to> her own apart- 
ment, where now were enshrined all her memories of 
this dead man who had given to her womanhood that 
ultimate crown which in her eyes seemed perfect. 

She said serenely to Palla : “Mine is not the loneli- 
ness that craves company with the living. I have a 
long time to wait; that is all. And after a while I 
shall not wait alone. 

“So you must not grieve for me, darling. You see 
I know that Jack lives. It’s just the long, long wait 
that calls for courage. But I think it is a little easier 
327 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


to wait alone until — until there are two to wait — for 
him ” 

“Will you call me when you want me, Ilse?” 

“Always, darling. Don’t grieve. Few women know 
happiness. I have known it. I know it now. It shall 
not even die with me.” 

She smiled faintly and turned to enter her doorway ; 
and Palla continued on alone toward that dwelling 
which she called home. 

The mourning which she had worn for her aunt, and 
which she had worn for John Est ridge that morning, 
she now put off, although vaguely inclined for it. But 
she shrank frgm the explanations in which it was cer- 
tain she must become involved when on duty at the 
Red Cross and the canteen that afternoon. 

Undressed, she sent her maid for a cup of tea, feel- 
ing too tired for luncheon. Afterward she lay down 
on her bed, meaning merely to close her eyes for a 
moment. 

It was after four in the afternoon when she sat up 
with a start — too late for the Red Cross ; but she could 
do something at the canteen. 

She went about dressing as though bruised. It 
seemed to take an interminable time. Her maid called 
a taxi; but the short winter daylight had nearly gone 
when she arrived at the canteen. 

She remained there on kitchen duty until seven, then 
untied her white tablier, washed, pinned on her hat, 
and went out into the light-shot darkness of the streets 
and turned her steps once more toward home. 

There is, among the weirder newspapers of the 
metropolis, a sheet affectionately known as “pink-and- 
punk,” the circulation of which seems to depend upon 
its distribution of fake “extras.” 

328 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


As Palla turned into her street, shabby men with 
hoarse voices were calling an extra and selling the news- 
paper in question. 

She bought one, glanced at the headlines, then, fold- 
ing it, unlocked her door. 

Dinner was announced almost immediately, but she 
could not touch it. 

She sank down on the sofa, still wearing her furs and 
hat. After a little while she opened her newspaper. 

It seemed that a Bolsheviki plot had been discovered 
to murder the premiers and rulers of the allied nations, 
and to begin simultaneously in every capital and prin- 
cipal city of Europe and America a reign of murder 
and destruction. 

In fact, according to the account printed in startling 
type, the Terrorists had already begun their destructive 
programme in Philadelphia. Half a dozen buildings — 
private dwellings and one small hotel — had been more 
or less damaged by bombs. A New York man named 
Wilding, fairly well known as an impresario, had been 
killed outright ; and a Russian pianist, Vanya Tchemov, 
who had just arrived in Philadelphia to complete ar- 
rangements for a concert to be given by him under 
Mr. Wilding’s management, had been fatally injured 
by the collapse of the hotel office which, at that moment, 
he was leaving in company with Mr. Wilding. 

A numbness settled over Palla’s brain. She did not 
seem to be able to comprehend that this affair concerned 
Vanya — that this newspaper was telling her that Vanya 
had been fatally hurt somewhere in Philadelphia. 

Hours later, while she was lying on the lounge with 
her face buried in the cushions, and still wearing her 
hat and furs, somebody came into the room. And when 
she turned over she saw it was Ilse. 

S29 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


Palla sat up stupidly, the marks of tears still glisten- 
ing under her eyes. Use picked up the newspaper from 
the couch, laid it aside, and seated herself. 

“So you know about Vanya?” she said calmly. 

Palla nodded. 

“You don’t know all. Marya called me on the tele- 
phone a few minutes ago to tell me.” 

“Vanya is dead,” whispered Palla. 

“Yes. They found an unmailed letter directed to 
Marya in his pockets. That’s why they notified her.” 

After an interval: “So Vanya is dead,” repeated 
Palla under her breath. 

Ilse sat plaiting the black edges of her handkerchief. 

“It’s such a — a senseless interruption — death ” 

she murmured. “It seems so wanton, so meaningless in 
the scheme of things ... to make two people wait 
so long — so long! — to resume where they had been 
interrupted ” 

Palla asked coldly whether Marya had seemed 
greatly shocked. 

“I don’t know, Palla. She called me up and told me. 
I asked her if there was anything I could do ; and she 
answered rather strangely that what remained for her 
to do she would do alone. I don’t know what she 
meant.” 

Whether Marya herself knew exactly what she meant 
seemed not to be entirely clear to her. For, when Mr. 
Puma, dressed in a travelling suit and carrying a 
satchel, arrived at her apartment in the Hotel Rajah, 
and entered the reception room with his soundless, 
springy step, she came out of her bed-room partly 
dressed, and still hooking her waist. 

“What are you doing here?” she demanded con- 

330 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


temptuously, looking him over from head to foot. “Did 
you really suppose I meant to go to Mexico with you?” 

His heavy features crimsoned : “What pleasantry is 

this, my Marya? ” he began; but the green blaze 

in her slanting eyes silenced him. 

“The difference,” she said, “between us is this. You 
run from those who threaten you. I kill them.” 

“Of — of what nonsense are you speaking!” he stam- 
mered. “All is arranged that we shall go at 
eleven ” 

“No,” she said wearily, “one sometimes plays with 
stray animals for a few moments — and that is all. And 
that is all I ever saw in you, Angelo — a stray beast 
to amuse and entertain me between two yawns and a 
cup of tea.” She shrugged, still twisted lithely in her 
struggle to hook her waist. “You may go,” she added, 
not even looking at him, “or, if you are not too 
cowardly, you may come with me to the Red Flag Club.” 

“In God’s name what do you mean ” 

“Mean? I mean to take my pistol to the Red Flag 
Club and kill some Bolsheviki. That is what I mean, 
my Angelo — my ruddy Eurasian pig!” 

She slipped in the last hook, turned and enveloped 
him again with an insolent, slanting glance: “ Allons ! 
Do you come to the Red Flag?” 

“Marya ” 

“Yes or no! AUez /” 

“My God, are — are you then demented?” he faltered. 

“My God, I’m not,” she mimicked him, “but I can’t 
answer for what I might do to you if you hang around 
this apartment any longer.” 

She came slowly toward him, her hands bracketed on 
her hips, her strange eyes narrowing. 

“Listen to me,” she said. “I have loved many times. 
331 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


But never you! One doesn’t love your kind. One ex- 
periments, possibly, if idle. 

“A man died to-day whom I loved ; but was too stupid 
to love enough. Perhaps he knows now how stupid 
I am. . . . Unless they blew his soul to pieces, 
also. Allez! Good-night. I tell you I have business 
to attend to, and you stand there rolling your woman’s 
eyes at me ! ” 

“Damn you!” he said between his teeth. “What is 
the matter with you ” 

He had caught her arm; she wrenched it free, tearing 
the sleeve to her naked shoulder. 

Then she went to her desk and took a pistol from an 
upper drawer. 

“If you don’t go,” she said, “I shall have to shoot 
you and leave you here kicking on the carpet.” 

“In God’s name, Marya!” he cried hoarsely, “who 
is it you shall kill at the hall?” 

“I shall kill Sondheim and Bromberg and Kastner, 
I hope. What of it?” 

“But — if I go to-night — the others will say l did it ! 
I can’t run away if you do such thing! I can not go 
into Mexico but they shall arrest me before I am at 
the border ” 

“Eurasian pig, I shall admit the killing!” she said 
with a green gleam in her eyes that perhaps was 
laughter. 

“Yes, my Marya,” he explained in agony, the sweat 
pouring from his temples, “but if they think me your 
accomplice they shall arrest me. Me — I can not wait — 
I shall be ruined if I am arrest! You do not compre- 
hend. I have not said it to you how it is that I am 
compel to travel with some money which — which is not 
— my own.” 


332 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


Mary a looked at him for a long while. Suddenly 
she flung the pistol into a comer, threw back her head 
while peal on peal of laughter rang out in the room. 

“A thief,” she said, fairly holding her slender sides 
between gemmed fingers: “ — just a Levantine thief, 
after all! Not a thing to shoot. Not a man. No! 
But a giant cockroach from the tropics. Ugh! Too 
large to place one’s foot upon ! ” 

She came leisurely forward, halted, inspected him 
with laughing insolence: 

“And the others — Kastner, Sondheim — and the other 
vermin? You were quite right. Why should I kill 
them — merely because to-day a real man died? What 
if they are the same species of vermin that slew Vanya 
Tchernov? They are not men to pay for it. My pistol 
could not make a dead man out of a live louse! No, 
you are quite correct. You know your own kind. It 
would be no compliment to Vanya if I should give these 
vermin the death that real men die!” 

Puma stood close to the door, furtively passing a 
thick tongue over his dry, blanched lips. 

“Then you will not interfere?” he asked softly. 

She shrugged her shoulders : one was bare with the 
torn sleeve dangling. “No,” she said wearily. “Run 
home, painted pig. After all, the world is mostly 

swine. ... I, too, it seems ” She half raised 

her arms, but the gesture failed, and she stood thinking 
again and staring at the curtained window. She did 
not hear him leave. 


CHAPTER XXIII 

I N the strange, springlike weather which prevailed 
during the last days of January, Vanya was buried 
under skies as fleecy blue as April’s, and Marya 
Lanois went back to the studio apartment where she 
and Vanya had lived together. And here, alone, in the 
first month of the new year, she picked up again the 
ravelled threads of life, undecided whether to untangle 
them or to cut them short and move on once more to 
further misadventure; or to Vanya; or somewhere — or 
perhaps nowhere. So, pending some decision, she left 
her pistol loaded. 

Afternoon sunshine poured into the studio between 
antique silken curtains, now drawn wide to the outer 
day for the first time since these two young people had 
established for themselves a habitation. 

And what, heretofore, even the lighted mosque-lamps 
had scarcely half revealed, now lay exposed to outer 
air and daylight, gilded by the sun — cabinets and chests 
of ancient lacquer; deep-toned carpets in which slum- 
bered jewelled fires of Asia ; carved gods from the East, 
crusted with soft gold ; and tapestries of silk shot with 
amethyst and saffron, centred by dragons and guard- 
ed by the burning pearl. 

Over all these, and the great mosque lantern droop- 
ing from above, the false-spring sunshine fell; and 
through every open window flowed soft, deceptive winds, 
S34> 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


fluttering the leaves of music on the piano, stirring the 
clustered sheafs of growing jonquils and narcissus, so 
that they swayed in their Chinese bowls. 

Marya, in black, arranged her tiger-ruddy hair be- 
fore an ancient grotesquerie set with a reflecting glass 
in which, on some days, one could see the form of the 
Lord Buddha, though none could ever tell from whence 
the image came. 

Where Vanya had left his music opened on the piano 
rack, the sacred pages now stirred slightly as the soft 
wind blew; and scented bells of Frisia swayed and bowed 
around a bowl where gold-fish glowed. 

Marya, at the piano, reading at sight from his inked 
manuscript, came presently to the end of what was 
scored there — merely the first sketch for a little spring 
song. 

Some day she would finish it as part of a new debt — 
new obligations she had now assumed in the slowly in- 
creasing light of new beliefs. 

As she laid Vanya’s last manuscript aside, under it 
she discovered one of her own — a cynical, ribald, 
pencilled parody which she remembered she had 
scribbled there in an access of malicious perversity. 

As though curious to sound the obscurer depths of 
what she had been when this jeering cynicism expressed 
her mood, she began to read from her score and words, 
playing and intoning: 

“CROQUE-MITAINE. 

“Parfait qu’on attend La Maree Rouge, 

La chose est positive. 

On n’sait pas quand el’ bouge, 

Mais on sait qu’el’ arrive. 

La Maree Rouge arrivera 
Et tout le monde en crfcvera! 

335 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


“Croque’morts, sacristains et abb6s, 

Dans leurs sacra’s boutiques 
Se cachent aupres des machab£’s 
En r6p£tant des cantiques. 

Pape, cardinal, et sacr6 soeur 
Miaulent avec tout leurs cliques, 

Lorsque les Bolsheviks reprenn ’nt en choeur; 

Mort aux saligaudes chic! 

“La Mar6e Rouge montera 
Et la bourgeoisie en cr&vera!” 

The vicious irony of the atrocious parody — words 
and music — died out in the sunny silence: for a few 
moments the girl sat staring at the scored page ; then 
she leaned forward, and, taking the manuscript in both 
hands, tore it into pieces. 

She was still occupied in destroying the unclean thing 
when a servant appeared, and in subdued voice an- 
nounced Palla and Ilse. 

They came in as Marya swept the tattered scraps of 
paper into an incense-bowl, dropped a lighted match 
upon them, and set the ancient bronze vessel on the 
sill of the open window. 

“Some of my vileness I am burning,” she said, coming 
forward and kissing Ilse on both cheeks. 

Then, looking Palla steadily in the eyes, she bent for- 
ward and touched her lips with her own. 

“Nechevo,” she said; “the thing that dwelt within 
me for a time has continued on its way to hell, I hope.” 

She took the pale girl by both hands: “Do you 
understand?” 

And Palla kissed her. 

When they were seated: “What religious order 
would be likely to accept me?” she asked serenely. And 
answered her own question: “None would tolerate me 
836 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


— no order with its rigid systems of inquiry and its 
merciless investigations. . . * And yet — I wonder 

. . . Perhaps, as a lay-sister in some missionary 

order — where few care to serve — where life resembles 
death as one twin the other. ... I don’t know: I 
wonder, Palla.” 

Palla asked her in a low voice if she had seen the 
afternoon paper. Marya did not reply at once; but 
presently over her face a hot rose-glow spread and 
deepened. Then, after a silence: 

“The paper mentioned me as Vanya’s wife. Is that 
what you mean? Yes; I told them that. ... It 
made no difference, for they would have discovered it 
anyway. And I scarcely know why I made Vanya lie 
about it to you all; — why I wished people to think 
otherwise. . . . Because I have been married to 

Vanya since the beginning. ... ,. . And I can not 

explain why I have not told you.” 

She touched a rosebud in the vase that stood beside 
her, broke the stem absently, and sat examining it in 
silence. And, after a few moments: 

“As a child I was too imaginative. . . . We do 

not change — we women. Married, unmarried, too wise, 
or too innocent, we remain what we were when our 
mothers bore us. . . . Whatever we do, we never 

change within: we remain, in our souls, what we first 
were. And unaltered we die. ... In morgue or 
prison or Potter’s Field, where lies a dead female thing 
in a tattered skirt, there, hidden somewhere under rag 
and skin and bone, lies a dead girl-child.” 

She laid the unopened rosebud on Palla’s knees; her 
preoccupied gaze wandered around that silent, sunlit 
place. 

“I could have taken my pistol,” she said softly, 

337 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


“and I could have killed a few among those whose 
doctrines at last slew Vanya. . laJ l *j Or I could have 
killed myself.” 

She turned and her remote gaze came back to fix 
itself on Palla. 

“But, somehow, I think that Vanya would grieve. 
. . . And he has grieved enough. Do you think so> 

Palla?” 

“Yes.” 

Use said thoughtfully: “There is always enough 
death on earth. And to live honestly, and love un- 
dauntedly, and serve humanity with a clean heart is 
the most certain way to help the slaying of that thing 
which murdered Vanya.” 

Palla gazed at Marya, profoundly preoccupied by 
the astounding revelation that she had been Vanya’s 
legal wife; and in her brown eyes the stunned wonder 
of it still remained, nor could she seem to think of any- 
thing except of that amazing fact. 

When they stood up to take leave of Marya, the rose- 
bud dropped from Palla’s lap, and Marya picked it 
up and offered it again. 

“It should open,” she said, her strange smile glim- 
mering. “Cold water and a little salt, my Palla — 
that is all rosebuds need — that is all we women need — 
a little water to cool and freshen us ; a little salt for all 
the doubtful worldly knowledge we imbibe.” 

She took Palla’s hands and bent her lips to them, 
then lifted her tawny head: 

“What do words matter? Slava , slava, under the 
moon! Words are but symbols of needs — your need 
and Use’s and mine — and Jack’s and Vanya’s — and the 
master-word differs as differ our several needs. And 
if I say Christ and Buddha and I are one, let me so 
338 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


believe, if that be my need. Or if, from some high 
minarette, I lift my voice proclaiming the unity of 
God! — or if I confess the Trinity! — or if, for me, the 
god-fire smoulders only within my own accepted soul — 
what does it matter? Slava, slava — the word and the 
need spell Love — whatever the deed, Palla — my Palla! 
— whatever the deed, and despite it.” 

As they came, together, to Palla’s house and entered 
the empty drawing-room, Use said: 

“In mysticism there seems to be no reasoning — noth- 
ing definite save only an occult and overwhelming rest- 
lessness. . . . Marya may take the veil. ... or 

nurse lepers ... or she may become a famous 
courtesan. . . . I do not mean it cruelly. But, in 

the mystic, the spiritual, the intellectual and the physi- 
cal seem to be interchangeable, and become gradually 
indistinguishable.” 

“That is a frightful analysis,” murmured Palla. A 
little shiver passed over her and she laid the rosebud 
against her lips. 

Ilse said: “Marya is right: love is the world’s over- 
whelming need. The way to love is to serve; and if 
we serve we must renounce something.” 

They locked arms and began to pace the empty room. 

“What should I renounce?” asked Palla faintly. 

Ilse smiled that wise, wholesome smile of hers : 

“Suppose you renounce your own omniscience, dar- 
ling,” she suggested. 

“I do not think myself omniscient,” retorted the girl, 
colouring. 

“No? Well, darling, from where then do you derive 
your authority to cancel the credentials of the Most 
High?” 


339 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


“What !” 

“On what authority except your own omniscience do 
you so confidently preach the non-existence of omnip- 
otence?” 

Palla turned her flushed face in sensitive astonish- 
ment under the gentle mockery. 

Ilse said : “Love has many names ; and so has God. 
And all are good. If, to you, God means that little 
flame within you, then that is good. And so, to others, 
according to their needs. . . . And it is the same 

with love. . . . So, if for the man you love, love 

can be written only as a phrase — if the word love be 
only one element in a trinity of which the other two 
are Law and Wedlock — does it really matter, darling?” 

“You mean I — I am to renounce my — creed?” 

Ilse shook her head: “Who cares? The years de- 
velop and change everything — even creeds. Do you 
think your lover would care whether, at twenty-odd, you 
worship the flaming godhead itself, or whether you 
guard in spirit that lost spark from it which has become 
entangled with your soul? — whether you really do be- 
lieve the man-made law that licenses your mating; or 
whether you reject it as a silly superstition? To a 
business man, convention is merely a safe procedure 
which, ignored, causes disaster — he knows that when- 
ever he ignores it — as when he drives a car bearing no 
license; and the police stop him.” 

“I never expected to hear this from you, Ilse.” 
“Why?” 

“You are unmarried.” 

“No, Palla.” 

The girl stared at her: “Did you marry Jack?” 
she gasped. 

“Yes. In the hospital.” 

340 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


“Oh, Ilse ! ” 

“He asked me.” 

“But — ” her mouth quivered and she bent her head 
and placed her hand on Use’s arm for guidance, because 
the starting tears were blinding her now. And at last 
she found her voice: “I meant I am so thankful — dar- 
ling — it’s been a — a nightmare ” 

“It would have been one to me if I had refused him. 
Except that Jack wished it, I did not care. . . . But 
I have lately learned — some things.” 

“You — you consented because he wished it?” 

“Of course. Is not that our law?” 

“Do you so construe the Law of Love and Service? 
Does it permit us to seek protection under false pre- 
tences; to say yes when we mean no ; to kneel before a 
God we do not believe in ; to accept immunity under a 
law we do not believe in?” 

“If all this concerned only one’s self, then, no ! Or, 
if the man believed as we do, no ! But even then — ” 
she shook her head slowly, “unless all agree, it is unfair.” 

“Unfair?” 

“Yes, it is unfair if you have a baby. Isn’t it, dar- 
ling? Isn’t it unfair and tyrannical?” 

“You mean that a child should not arbitrarily be 
placed by its parents at what it might later consider a 
disadvantage?” 

“Of course I mean just that. Do you know, Palla, 
what Jack once said of us? He said — rather brutally, 
I thought — that you and I were immaturely un-moral 
and pitiably unbaked ; and that the best thing for both 
of us was to marry and have a few children before we 
tried to do any more independent thinking.” 

Palla’s reply was : “He was such a dear !” But what 
she said did not seem absurd to either of them. 

341 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


Ilse added: “You know yourself, darling, what a 
relief it was to you to learn that I had married Jack. 
I think you even said something like, ‘Thank God,’ when 
you were choking back the tears.” 

Palla flushed brightly: “I meant — ” but her voice 
ended in a sob. Then, all of a sudden, she broke down 
— went all to pieces there in the dim and empty little 
drawing-room — down on her knees, clinging to Use’s 
skirts. . . . 

She wished to go to her room alone; and so Ilse, 
watching her climb the stairs as though they led to 
some dread calvary, opened the front door and went 
her lonely way, drawing the mourning veil around her 
face and throat. 


CHAPTER XXIV 


L EILA VANCE, lunching with Elorn Sharrow at 
the Ritz, spoke of Estridge: 

“There seem to be so many of these well-born 
men who marry women we never heard of.” 

“Perhaps we ought to have heard of them,” suggested 
Elorn, smilingly. “The trouble may lie with us.” 

“It does, dear 0 But it’s something we can’t help, 
unless we change radically. Because we don’t stand the 
chance we once did. We never have been as attractive 
to men as the other sort. But once men thought they 
couldn’t marry the other sort. Now they think they 
can. And they do if they have to.” 

“What other sort?” asked Elorn, not entirely under- 
standing. 

“The sort of girl who ignores the customs which 
make us what we are. We don’t stand a chance with 
professional women any more. We don’t compare in 
interest to girls who are arbiters of their own destinies. 

“Take the stage as an illustration. Once the popu- 
larity of women who made it their profession was due 
partly to glamour, partly because that art drew to it 
and concentrated the very best-looking among us. But 
it’s something else now that attracts men ; it’s the at- 
traction of women who are doing something — clever, 
experienced, interesting, girls who know how to take 
care of themselves and who are not afraid to give to 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


men a frank and gay companionship outside those 
conventional limits which circumscribe us.” 

Elorn nodded. 

“It’s quite true,” said Leila. “The independent pro- 
fessional girl to-day, whatever art or business engages 
her, is the paramount attraction to men. 

“A few do sneak back to us after a jolly caper in the 
open — a few timid ones, or snobs of sorts — thrifty, 
perhaps, or otherwise material, or cautious. But that’s 
about all we get as husbands in these devilish days of 
general feminine bouleversement . And it’s a sad and 
instructive fact, Elom. But there seems to be nothing 
to do about it.” 

Elorn said musingly: “The main thing seems to be 
that men admire a girl’s effort to get somewhere — when 
she happens to be good-looking.” 

“It’s a cynical fact, dear; they certainly do. And 
now that they realise they have to marry these girls 
if they want them — why, they do.” 

Elom dissected her ice. “You know Stanley 
Wardner,” she remarked. 

“Mortimer Wardner’s son?” 

Elorn nodded. “He became a queer kind of sculptor. 
I think it is called a Concentrationist. Well, he’s con- 
centrated for life, now.” 

“Whom did he marry?” asked Leila, laughing. 

“A girl named Questa Terrett. You never heard of 
her, did you?” 

“No. And I can imagine the moans and groans of 
the Mortimer Wardners.” 

“I have heard so. She lives — they live now, together, 
in Abdingdon Square, where she possesses a studio and 
nearly a dozen West Highland terriers.” 

“What else does she do ?”inquiredLeila, still laughing. 

344 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


“She writes cleverly when she needs an income ; other- 
wise, she produces obscure poems with malice afore- 
thought, and laughs in her sleeve, they say, when the 
precious-minded rave.” 

Leila reverted to Estridge: 

“I had no idea he was married,” she said. “Palla 
Dumont introduced his widow to me the other day — 
a most superb and beautiful creature. But, oh dearl 
— can you fancy her having once served as a girl- 
soldier in the Russian Battalion of Death!” 

The slightest shadow crossed Elom’s face. 

“By the way,” added Leila, following quite innocently 
her trend of thought, “Helen Shotwell tells me that her 
son is going back to the army if he can secure a 
commission.” 

“Yes, I believe so,” said Elom serenely. 

Leila went on: “I fancy there’ll be a lot of them* 
A taste of service seems to spoil most young men for a 
piping career of peace.” 

“He cares nothing for his business.” 

“What is it?” 

“Real estate. He is with my father, you know.” 

“Of course. I remember — ” She suddenly seemed 
to recollect something else, also — not, perhaps, quite 
certain of it, but instinctively playing safe. So she 
refrained from saying anything about this young man’s 
recent devotion to her friend, Palla Dumont, although 
that was the subject which she had intended to intro- 
duce. 

And, smiling to herself, she thought it a close call, 
because she had meant to ask Elorn whether she knew 
why the Shotwell boy had so entirely deserted her little 
friend Palla. 

The Shotwell boy himself happened to be involved 

345 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


at that very moment, in matters concerning 1 a friend 
of Mrs. Vance’s little friend Palla — in fact, he had 
been trying, for the last half hour, to find this friend 
of Palla’s on the telephone. The friend in question 
was Alonzo D. Pawling. And he was being vigorously 
paged at the Hotel Rajah. 

As for Jim, he remained seated in the private office 
of Angelo Puma, whither he had been summoned in pro- 
fessional capacity by one Skidder, the same being Elmer, 
and partner of the Puma aforesaid. 

The door was locked; the room in disorder. Safe, 
letter-files, cupboards, desks had been torn open and 
their contents littered the place. 

Skidder, in an agony of perspiring fright, kept 
running about the room like a distracted squirrel. Jim 
watched him, darkly preoccupied with other things, in-, 
eluding the whereabouts of Mr. Pawling. 

“You say,” he said to Skidder, “that Mr. Pawling 
will confirm what you have told me?” 

“John D. Pawling knows damn well I own this plant 1” 

Jim shook his head: “Pm sorry, but that isn’t suf- 
ficient. I can only repeat to you that there is no 
point in calling me in at present. You have no legal 
right to offer this property for sale. It belongs, ap- 
parently, to the creditors of your firm. What you 
require first of all is a lawyer ” 

“I don’t want a lawyer and I don’t want publicity 
before I get something out of this dirty mess that 
scoundrel left behind !” cried Skidder, snapping his eyes 
like mad and swinging his arms. “I got to get some- 
thing, haven’t I? Isn’t this property mine? Can’t I 
sell it?” 

“Apparently not, under the terms of your agreement 

346 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


with Puma,” replied Jim, wearily. “However, I’m will- 
ing to hear what Mr. Pawling has to say.” 

“You mean to tell me, Puma fixed it so Pm stuck 
with all his debts? You mean to say my own personal 
property is subject to seizure to satisfy ” 

“I certainly do mean just that, Mr. Skidder. But 
I’m not a lawyer ” 

“I tell you I want to get something for myself be- 
fore I let loose any lawyers on the premises ! I’ll make 
it all right with you ” 

“It’s out of the question. We wouldn’t touch the 
property ” 

“I’ll take a quarter of its value in spot cash! I’ll 
give you ten thousand to put it through to-day!” 

“Why can’t you understand that what you suggest 
would amount to collusion?” 

“What I propose is to get a slice of what’s mine!” 
yelled Skidder, fairly dancing with fury. “D’yeh think 
I’m going to let that crooked wop, Puma, do this to 
me just like that! D’yeh think he’s going to get away 
with all my money and all Pawling’s money and leave 
me planted on my neck while about a million other guys 
come and sell me out and fill their pants pockets with 
what’s mine?” 

Jim said : “If Mr. Pawling is the very rich man you 
say he is, he’s not going to let the defalcation of this 
fellow, Puma, destroy such a paying property.” 

“Damn it, I don’t want him to buy it in for himself 
and freeze me out ! I can’t stop him, either; Puma’s got 
all my money except what’s in this parcel. And you 
betcha life I hang onto this, creditors or no creditors, 
and Pawling to the contrary! He knows damn well 
it belongs to me. Try him again at the Rajah ” 

“They’re paging him. I left the number. But I 

347 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


tell you the proper thing for you to do is to go to a 
lawyer, and then to the police,” repeated Jim. “There’s 
nothing else to do. This fellow, Puma, may have run 
for the Mexican border, or he may still be in the United 
States. Without a passport he couldn’t very easily 
get on any trans- Atlantic boat or any South American 
boat either. The proper procedure is to notify the 
police ” 

“Nix on the police!” shouted Skidder. “That’ll start 
the land-slide, and the whole shooting-match will go. 
I want this property. If the papers show it’s subject 
to the firm’s liabilities, then that dirty skunk altered 
the thing. It’s forgery. 

“I never was fool enough to lump this parcel in with 
our assets. Not me. It’s forgery; that’s what it is, 
and this parcel belongs to me, privately ” 

“See an attorney,” repeated Jim patiently. “You 
can’t keep a thing like this out of the papers, Mr. 
Skidder. Why, here’s a man, Angelo Puma, who 
pounces on every convertible asset of his firm, stuffs 
a valise full of real money, and beats it for parts un- 
known. 

“That’s a matter for the police. You can’t hope to 
hide it for more than a day or two longer. Your firm 
is bankrupt through the rascality of a partner. He’s 
gone with all the money he could scrape together. He 
converted everything into cash ; he lied, swindled, stole, 
and skipped. And what he didn’t take must remain to 
satisfy the firm’s creditors. You can’t conceal con- 
ditions, slyly pocket what Puma has left and then call 
in an attorney. That’s criminal. You have your con- 
tracts to fulfil ; you have a studio full of people whose 
salaries are nearly due ; you have running expenses ; 
you have notes to meet; you have obligations to face 
348 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


when a dozen or so contractors for your new theatre 
come to you on Saturday ” 

“You mean that’s all up to me?” shrieked Skidder, 
squinting horribly at a framed photograph of Puma. 
And suddenly he ran at it and hurled it to the floor 
and began to kick it about with strange, provincial 
maledictions : 

“Dern yeh, yeh poor blimgasted thing! I’ll skin 
yeh, yeh dumb-faced, ring-boned, two-edged son-of-a- 
skunk ! ” 

The telephone’s clamour silenced him. Jim answered : 

“Who? Oh, long-distance. All right.” And he 
waited. Then, again: “Who wants him ? . . . Yes, 

he’s here in the office, now. . . . Yes, he’ll come to 

the ’phone.” 

And to Skidder: “Shadow Hill wants to speak to 
you.” 

“I won’t go. By God, if this thing is out ! — Who the 
hell is it wants to speak to me? Wait! Maybe it’s 
Alonzo D. Pawling! ” 

“Shall I inquire?” And he asked for further in- 
formation over the wire. Then, presently, and turning 
again to Skidder: 

“You’d better come to the wire. It seems to be the 
Chief of Police who wants you.” 

Skidder’s unhealthy skin became ghastly. He came 
over and took the instrument : 

“What d’ye want, Chief? Sure it’s me, Elmer. 

. Hey? Who? Alonzo D. Pawling? My God, 
is he dead? Took pizen! W-what for! He’s a rich 
man, ain’t he? . . . Speculated? . . .You say 

he took the bank’s funds? Trust funds? What!” 
he screeched — “put ’em into my company ! He’s a liar ! 
349 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


. . . I don’t care what letters he left! . . . 

Well, all right then. Sure, I’ll get a lawyer ” 

“Tell him to hold that wire!” cut in Jim; and took 
the receiver from Skidder’s shaking fingers. 

“Is the Shadow Hill Trust Company insolvent?” he 
asked. “You say that the bank closed its doors this 
morning? Have you any idea of its condition? 
Looted? Is it entirely cleaned out? Is there no chance 
for depositors? I wish to inquire about the trust funds, 
bonds and other investments belonging to a friend of 
mine, Miss Dumont. . . . Yes, I’ll wait.” 

He turned a troubled and sombre gaze toward 

Skidder, who sat there pasty-faced, with sagging jaw, 
staring back at him. And presently: 

“Yes. . . . Yes, this is Mr. Shotwell, a friend of 
Miss Dumont. . . . Yes. . . . Yes. . . . Yes. 

. . . I see. . . . Yes, I shall try to communicate 

with her immediately. . . . Yes, I suppose the news 

will be published in the evening papers. . . . Cer- 

tainly. . . . Yes, I have no doubt that she will go at 
once to Shadow Hill. . . . Thank you. . . . Yes, 

it does seem rather hopeless. . . . I’ll try to find 

her and break it to her. . . . Thank you. Good- 

bye.” 

He hung up the receiver, took his hat and coat, his 
eyes fixed absently on Skidder. 

“You’d better beat it to your attorney,” he remarked, 
and went out. 

He could not find Palla. She was not at the Red 
Cross, not at the canteen, not at the new Hostess House. 

He telephoned Ilse for information, but she was not 
at home. 

Twice he called at Palla’s house, leaving a message 

350 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


the last time that she should telephone him at the club 
on her arrival. 

He went to the club and waited there, trying to read. 
At a quarter to six o’clock no message from her had 
come. 

Again he telephoned Ilse; she had not returned. He 
even telephoned to Marya, loath to disturb her; but 
she, also, was not at home. 

The chances that he could break the news to Palla 
before she read it in the evening paper were becoming 
negligible. He had done his best to forestall them. But 
at six the evening papers arrived at the club. And in 
every one of them was an account of the defalcation 
and suicide of the Honorable Alonzo D. Pawling, presi- 
dent of the Shadow Hill Trust Company. But noth- 
ing yet concerning the defalcation and disappearance 
of Angelo Puma. 

Jim had no inclination to eat, but he tried to at 
seven-thirty, still waiting and hoping for a message 
from Palla. 

He tried her house again about half past eight. This 
time the maid answered that Miss Dumont had tele- 
phoned from down town that she would dine out and 
go afterward to the Combat Club. And that if Mr. 
Shotwell desired to see her he should call at her house 
after ten o’clock. 

So Jim hastened to the cloak-room, got his hat and 
coat, found the starter, secured a taxi, bought an eve- 
ning paper and stuffed it into his pocket, and started 
out to find Palla at the Combat Club. For it seemed evi- 
dent to him that she had not yet read the evening paper; 
and he hoped he might yet encounter her in time to pre- 
pare her for news which, according to the newspapers, 
appeared even blacker than he had supposed it might be* 
351 


CHAPTER XXV 


S he left the taxi in front of the dirty brick arch- 



way and flight of steps leading to the hall, where 


he expected to find Palla, he noticed a small 
crowd of wrangling foreigners gathered there — men 
and women — and a policeman posted near, calm and 
indifferent, juggling his club at the end of its leather 


thong. 


Jim paused to inquire if there had been any trouble 
there that evening. 

“Well,” said the policeman, “there’s two talking- 
clubs that chew the rag in that joint. It’s the Reds’ 
night, but wan o’ the ladies of the other club showed 
up — Miss Dumont — and the Reds yonder was all for 
chasing her out. So we run in a couple of ’em — that 
feller Sondheim and another called Bromberg. They’re 
wanted, anyhow, in Philadelphia.” 

“Is there a meeting inside?” 

“Sure. The young lady went in to settle it peace- 
ful like; and she’s inside now jawin’ at them Reds to 
beat a pink tea.” 

“Do you apprehend any violence?” asked Jim un- 
easily. 

The policeman juggled his club and eyed him. “I — 
guess — not,” he drawled. And, to the jabbering, 
wrangling crowd on pavement and steps : “ — Hey, you ! 
Go in or stay out, one or the other, now ! Step lively ; 
you’re blockin’ the sidewalk.” 

A number of people mounted the steps and went in 


352 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


with Jim. As the doors to the hall opened, a flare of 
smoky light struck him, and he pushed his way into the 
hall, where a restless, murmuring audience, some seated, 
others standing, was watching a number of men and 
women on the rostrum. 

There seemed to be more wrangling going on there — 
knots of people disputing and apparently quite oblivi- 
ous of the audience. 

And almost immediately he caught sight of Palla on 
the platform. But even before he could take a step 
forward in the crowded aisle, he saw her force her way 
out of an excited group of people and come to the 
edge of the platform, lifting a slim hand for silence. 

“Put her out!” shouted some man’s voice. A dozen 
other voices bawled out in coherencies ; Palla waited'; 
and after a moment or two there were no further inter- 
ruptions. 

“Please let me say what I have to say,” she said in that 
shy and gentle way she had when facing hostile listeners. 

“Speak louder!” yelled a young man. “Come on, 
silk-stockings! — spit it out and go home to mother!” 

“I wish I could,” she said. 

Her rejoinder was so odd and unexpected that still- 
ness settled over the place. 

“But all I can do,” she added, in an even, colourless 
voice, “is to go home. And I shall do that after I have 
said what I have to say.” 

At that moment there was a commotion in the rear 
of the hall. A dozen policemen filed into the place, 
pushing their way right and left and ranging them- 
selves along the wall. Their officer came into the aisle: 

“If there’s any disorder in this place to-night, I’ll 
run in the whole bunch o’ ye!” he said calmly. 

“All right. Hit out, little girl!” cried the young 

353 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


man who had interrupted before. “We gotta lot of 
business to fix up after you’ve gone to bed, so get busy !” 

“I, also, have some business to fix up,” she said in 
the same sweet, emotionless voice, 46 — business of setting 
myself right by admitting that I have been wrong. 

“Because, on this spot where I am standing, I have 
spoken against the old order of things. I have said 
that there is no law excepting only the law of Love and 
Service. I have said that there is no God other than 
the deathless germ of deity within each one of us. I 
have said that the conventions and beliefs and usages 
and customs of civilisation were old, outworn, and 
tyrannical ; and that there was no need to regard them 
or to obey the arbitrary laws based on them. 

“In other words, I have preached disorder while at- 
tempting to combat it : I have preached revolution while 
counselling peace ; I have preached bigotry where I have 
demanded toleration. 

“For there is no worse bigot than the free-thinker 
who demands that the world subscribe to his creed; 
no tyrant like the under-dog when he becomes the upper 
one ; no autocracy to compare with mob rule ! 

“You can not obtain freedom for all by imposing 
that creed upon anybody by the violence of revolu- 
tionary ukase! 

“You can not wreck any edifice until all who enjoy 
ownership in it agree to its demolition. You can not 
build for all unless each voluntarily comes forward to 
aid with stone and mortar. 

“Anarchy leaves the majority roofless. What is the 
use of saying, ‘Let them perish’? What is the use of 
trying to rebuild the world that way? You can’t do 
it, even if you set fire to the world and start your end- 
less war of human murder. 

354 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


“If you were the majority you would not need to do 
it. But you are the minority, and there are too many 
against you. 

“Only by infinite pains and patience can you alter 
the social structure to better it. Cautious and wary 
replacement is the only method, not exploding a mine 
beneath the keystone. 

“The world has won out from barbarism so far. It 
must continue to emerge by degrees. And if beliefs and 
laws and customs be obsolete, only by general agree- 
ment may they be modified without danger to all. Not 
the violent revolt of one or a dozen or a thousand can 
alter what has, so far, nourished and sustained civili- 
sation. 

“That is the Prussian belief. Bolshevism was sired 
by Karl Marx and was hatched out in the shaggy 
gloom of the Prussian wilderness. 

“It does not belong anywhere else ; it does not belong 
on the plains of Russia or in her forests or on her 
mountains. It is a Prussian thing — a misbegotten 
monster born of a vile and decadent race, — a horrible 
parasite, like that one which carries typhus, infects 
as it spreads from the degraded race that hatched it, 
crawling from country to country and leaving behind 
it dead minds, dead hearts, dead souls, and rotting 
flesh. 

“For order and disorder can not both reign para- 
mount on this planet! The one shall slay the other. 
And Bolshevism is disorder — a violent and tyrannical 
and autocratic attempt to utterly destroy the vast 
majority for the benefit of the microscopic minority. 

“You can not do it, you Terrorists! Prussia tried 
terrorism on the world. Where is she to-day? You 
355 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


can not teach by frightfulness. You can not scare 
beliefs out of anybody. 

“Method, order, education — there is no other chance 
for any propagandist to-day. 

“I have stood here night after night proclaiming that 
my personal conception of right and wrong, of truth 
and falsehood, of law and morals was the only intelli- 
gent one, and that I should ignore and disregard any 
other opinion. 

“What I preached was Bolshevism ! And I was such 
a fool I didn’t know it. But that’s what I preached. 
For it is an incitement to disorder to proclaim one’s 
self above obedience to what has been established as 
a law to govern all. 

“It is an insidious counsel to violence, revolution, 
Bolshevism and utter anarchy to say to people that 
they should disregard any law formed by all for the 
common weal. 

“If the marriage law seems unnecessary, unjust, then 
only by common consent can it be altered; and until 
it is altered, any who disregard it strike at civilisation ! 

“If the laws governing capital and labour seem cruel, 
stupid, tyrannical, only by general consent can they 
be altered safely. 

“You of the Bolsheviki can not come among us drip- 
ping with human blood, showing us your fangs, and 
expect from us anything except a fusillade. 

“And your propaganda, also, is not human. It is 
Prussian. Do you suppose, you foreign-born, that you 
can come here among this free people and begin your 
operations by cursing our laws and institutions and 
telling us we are not free? 

“Because we tolerate you, do you suppose we don’t 
know that in most of the larger cities there are now 
356 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


organised Soviets, similar to those in Russia, that 
anarchists are now conducting schools, and that the 
radical propaganda which has taken on new life since 
the signing of the armistice is gaining headway in those 
parts of the country where there are large foreign-born 
populations? 

“Do you suppose we don’t know Prussianism when 
we see it, after these last four years? 

“Do you suppose we have not read the Staats-Zeitung 
editorial of December 8, which in part was as follows: 

“ ‘Hundreds of thousands of our boys are standing 
now over there in the old homeland, which for nineteen 
months was enemy country and is that still, but which, 
as President Wilson promised, will soon be a land of 
peace again, rich in diligent work, rich in true and 
good people. ... As the whole happy life of 
this blessed region presents a picture to the spectator, 
it is to be wondered whether his (the American soldier’s) 
memory will awaken on what he read of this country 
(Germany) at home long ago, whether he will feel a 
slight blush of shame in his cheeks and anger for those 
who, not from their own knowledge but from doubtful 
sources, branded a whole great people, 70,000,000, as 
barbarians, huns, murderers of children and church 
robbers. And whether he (the American soldier) will 
at the same time make a pledge in his heart to combat 
those lies and rumours when he is back home again, and 
to tell the truth about those (the Germans) living be- 
hind those mountains.’ ” 

Palla’s face flushed and she came close to the edge of 
the platform: 

“I have been warned that if I came here to-night 
I’d have trouble. The anonymous writers who send me 
letters talk about bombs. 

357 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


■? 

“Do you imagine because 3 T ou murdered Vanya 
Tchernov in Philadelphia the other day that you can 
frighten anybody dumb? 

“I tell you you don’t know what you’re doing. You’re 
dazed and scared and bewildered by finding yourselves 
suddenly in the open world after all those lurking years 
in hiding. As a forest wolf, his eyes dazzled by the 
sun, runs blindly across a field of new mown hay, dodg- 
ing where there is nothing to dodge, leaping over 
shadows, so you, emerging from darkness, start out 
across the fertile world, the sun of civilisation blinding 
you so that you run as though stupefied and fright- 
ened, shying at straws, dodging zephyrs, leaping a pool 
of dew as though it were the Volga. 

“What are you afraid of? You have nothing to 
fear except yourselves out here in the sunny open! 

“Behold your enemies — yourselves! — selfish, defiant, 
full of false council, of envy, of cowardice, of treachery. 

“For there would be no sorrow, no injustice in the 
world if we — each one of us — were true to our better 
selves! You know it! You can not come out of dark- 
ness and range the open world like wolves ! Civilisation 
will kill you! 

“But you can come out of your long twilight bear- 
ing yourselves like men — and find, by God’s grace, that 
you are men! — that you are fashioned like other men 
to stand upright in the light without blinking and slink- 
ing and dodging into cover. 

“For the haymakers will not climb and stone you ; the 
herds will not stampede; no watch-dogs of civilisation 
will attack you if you come out into the fields looking 
like men, behaving like men, asking to share the world’s 
burdens like men, and like men giving brain and brawn 
to make more pleasant and secure the only spot in the 
358 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


solar system dedicated by the Most High to the de- 
velopment of mankind!” 

There was a dead silence in the place. 

Palla slowly lifted her head and raised her right 
hand. 

“I desire,” she said in a low, grave voice, “to acknowl- 
edge here my belief in law, in order, and in a divine, 
creative, and responsible wisdom. And in ultimate 
continuation.” 

She turned away as a demonstration began, and Jim 
saw her putting on her coat. There was some scatter- 
ing applause, but considerable disorder where men in 
the audience began to harangue each other and shake 
dirty fingers under one another’s noses. Two personal 
encounters and one hair-pulling were checked by bored 
policemen: a girl got up and began to shout that she 
was a striking garment worker and that she had neither 
money, time, nor inclination to wait until some ama- 
teur silk-stocking felt like raising her wages. 

On the platform Karl Kastner had come forward, 
and his icy, incisive, menacing voice cut the growing 
tumult. 

“You haff heard with patience thiss so silly prattle 
of a rich young girl — ” he began. “Now it is a poor 
man who speaks to you out of a heart full of bitter- 
ness against this law and order which you half heard 
so highly praised. 

“For this much-praised law and order it hass to- 
night assassinated free speech ; it has arrested our com- 
rades, Nathan Bromberg and Max Sondheim; it hass 
fill our hall with policemen. And I wonder if there iss, 
perhaps, a little too much law and order in the world, 
und iff veileicht, there may be too many policemen as 
veil as capitalist-little-girls in thiss hall. 

359 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


“Und, sometimes, too, I am wondering why iss it ve 
do not kill a few ” 

“That’ll do!” interrupted the sergeant of police, 
striding down the aisle. “Come on, now, Karl; you 
done it that time.” 

An angry roar arose all around him ; he nodded to 
his men: 

“Xiun in any cut-ups,” he said briefly ; climbed up 
to the rostrum, and laid his hand on Kastner’s arm. 

At the same moment a stunning explosion shook the 
place and plunged it into darkness. Out of the smoke- 
choked blackness burst an uproar of shrieks and 
screams ; plaster and glass fell everywhere ; police 
whistles sounded; a frantic, struggling mass of 
humanity fought for escape. 

As Jim reeled out into the lobby, he saw Palla lean- 
ing against the wall, with blood on her face. 

Before the first of the trampling horde emerged he 
had caught her by the arm and had led her down the 
steps to the street. 

“They’ve blown up the — the place,” she stammered, 
wiping her face with her gloved hand in a dazed sort 
of way. 

“Are you badly hurt?” he asked unsteadily. 

“No, I don’t think so ” 

He had led her as far as the avenue, now echoing 
with the clang of fire engines and the police patrol. 
And out of the darkness, from everywhere, swarmed the 
crowd that only a great city can conjure instantly and 
from nowhere. 

Blood ran down her face from a cut over her temple. 
A tiny triangular bit of glass still glittered in the 
wound; and he removed it and gave her his handker- 
chief. 


360 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


“Was Ilse there, too?” he asked. 

“No. Nobody went to-night except myself. . . 

Why were you there, Jim?” 

“Why in God’s name did you go there all alone 
among those Reds !” 

She shook her head wearily: 

“I had to. . . . What a horrible thing to hap- 
pen ! . . . I am so tired, Jim. Could you get me 

home ?” 

He found a taxi nearer Broadway and directed the 
driver to stop at a drug-store. Here he insisted that 
the tiny cut on Palla’s temple be properly attended to. 
But it proved a simple matter ; there was no glass in it, 
and the bleeding ceased before they reached her house. 

At the door he took leave of her, deeming it no time 
to subject her to any further shock that night; but 
she retained her hold on his arm. 

“I want you to come in, Jim.” 

“You said you were tired; and you’ve had a terrible 
shock ” 

“That is why I need you,” she said in a low voice. 
Then, looking up at him with a pale smile: “I want 
you — just once more.” 

They went in together. Her maid, hearing the openA, 
ing door, appeared and took her away ; and Jim turned 
into the living-room. A lighted lamp on the piano 
illuminated his own framed photograph — that was the 
first thing he noticed — the portrait of himself in uni- 
form, flanked on either side by little vases full of blue 
forget-me-nots. 

He started to lift one to his face, but reaction had 
set in and his hands were shaking. And he turned away 
and stood staring into the empty fireplace, passionately 
possessed once more by the eternal witchery of this 
361 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


young girl, and under the spell again of the enchanted 
place wherein she dwelt. 

The very air breathed her magic; every familiar 
object seemed to be stealthily conspiring in the subdued 
light to reaccomplish his subjection. 

Her maid appeared to say that Miss Dumont would 
be ready in a few minutes. She came, presently, in 
a clinging chamber-gown — a pale golden affair with 
misty touches of lace. , 

He arranged cushions for her : she lighted a cigarette 
for him ; and he sank down beside her in the old place. 

Both were still a little shaken. He said that he be- 
lieved the explosion had come from the outside, and 
that the principal damage had been done next door, 
in Mr. Puma’s office. 

She nodded assent, listlessly, evidently preoccupied 
with something else. 

After a few moments she looked up at him. 

“This is the second day of February,” she said. 
“Within the last month Jack Estridge died, and Vanya 
died. . . . To-day another man died — a man I have 

known from childhood. . . . His name was Pawling. 

And his death has ruined me.” 

“When — when did you learn that?” he asked, as- 
tounded. 

“This morning. My housekeeper in Shadow Hill 
telephoned me that Mr. Pawling had killed himself, that 
the bank was closed, and that probably there was noth- 
ing left for those who had funds deposited there.” 

“You knew that this morning?” he asked, amazed. 

“Yes.” 

“And you — you still had courage to go to } 7 our Red 
Cross, to your canteen and Hostess House — to that 
horrible Red Flag Club — and face those beasts and 
362 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


make the — the perfectly magnificent speech you 
made ! ” 

“Did — did you hear it !” she faltered. 

“Every word.” 

For a few moments she sat motionless and very white 
in her knowledge that this man had heard her confess 
her own conversion. 

Her brain whirled: she was striving to think steadily 
trying to find the right way to reassure him — to fore- 
stall any impulsive chivalry born of imaginary obliga- 
tion. 

“Jim,” she said in a colorless voice, “there are so 
many worse things than losing money. I think Mr. 
Pawling’s suicide shocked me much more than the knowl- 
edge that I should be obliged to earn my own living 
like millions of other women. 

“Of course it scared me for a few minutes. I couldn’t 
help that. But after I got over the first unpleasant 
— feeling, I concluded to go about my business in life 
until it came time for me to adjust myself to the scheme 
of things.” 

She smiled without effort: “Besides, it’s not really 
so bad. I have a house in Shadow Hill to which I can 
retreat when I sell this one ; and with a tiny income from 
the sale of this house, and with what I can earn, I 
ought to be able to support myself very nicely.” 

“So you — expect to sell?” 

“Yes, I must. Even if I sell my house and land in 
Connecticut I cannot afford this house any longer.” 

“I see.” 

She smiled, keeping her head and her courage high 
without apparent effort: 

“It’s another job for you,” she said lightly. “Will 
you be kind enough to put this house on your list?” 

363 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


“If you wish.” 

“Thank you, Jim, I do indeed. And the sooner you 
can sell it for me the better.” 

He said: “And the sooner you marry me the better, 
Palla.” 

At that she flushed crimson and made a quick gesture 
as though to check him ; but he went on : “I heard what 
you said to those filthy swine to-night. It was the 
pluckiest, most splendid thing I ever heard and saw. 
And I have seen battles. Some. But I never before 
saw a woman take her life in her hands and go all alone 
into a cage of the same dangerous, rabid beasts that 
had slain a friend of hers within the week, and find 
courage to face them and tell them they were beasts ! 
— and more than that! — find courage to confess her 
own mistakes — humble herself — acknowledge what she 
had abjured — bear witness to the God whom once she 
believed abandoned her!” 

She strove to open her lips in protest — lifted 
her disconcerted eyes to his — shrank away a little as 
his hand fell over hers. 

“I’ve never faltered,” he said. “It damned near 
killed me. . . . But I’d have gone on loving you, 

Palla, all my life. There never could have been any- 
body except you. There was never anybody before 
you. Usually there has been in a mail’s life. There 
never was in mine. There never will be.” 

His firm hand closed on hers. 

“I’m such an ordinary, every day sort of fellow,” he 
said wistfully, “that, after I began to realise how won- 
derful you are, I’ve been terribly afraid I wasn’t up to 
you. 

“Even if I have cursed out your theories and creeds, 
it almost seemed impertinent for me to do it, because 
364 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


you really have so many talents and accomplishments, 
so much knowledge, so infinite a capacity for things of 
the mind, which are rather out of my mental sphere. 
And I’ve wondered sometimes, even if you ever consented 
to marry me, whether such a girl as you are could jog 
along with a business man who likes the arts but doesn’t 
understand them very well and who likes some of his 
fellow men but not all of them and whose instinct is 
to punch law-breakers in the nose and not weep over 
them and lead them to the nearest bar and say, ‘Go to 
it, erring brother !’ ” 

“Jim !” 

For all the while he had been drawing her nearer as 
he was speaking. And she was in his arms now, laughing 
a little, crying a little, her flushed face hidden on his 
shoulder. 

He drew a deep breath and, holding her imprisoned, 
looked down at her. 

“Will you marry me, Palla?” 

“Oh, Jim, do you want me now?” 

“Now, darling, but not this minute, because a clergy- 
man must come first.” 

It was cruel of him, as well as vigorously indelicate. 
Her hot blush should have shamed him ; her conversion 
should have sheltered her. 

But the man had had a hard time, and the bitterness 
was but just going. 

“Will you marry me, Palla?” 

After a long while her stifled whisper came: “You 
are brutal. Do you think I would do anything else — 
now ?” 

“No. And you never would have either.” 

Lying there close in his arms, she wondered. And, 
still wondering, she lifted her head and looked up into 
365 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


his eyes — watching them as they neared her own — 
still trying to see them as his lips touched hers. 

He was the sort of man who got hungry when left 
too long unfed. It was one o’clock. They had gone 
out to the refrigerator together, his arm around her 
supple waist, her charming head against his shoulder — 
both hungry but sentimental. 

“And don’t you really think,” she said for the hun- 
dredth time, “that we ought to sell this house?” 

“Not a bit of it, darling. We’ll run it if we have to 
live on cereal and do our own laundry.” 

“You mean I’ll have to do that?” 

“I’ll help after business hours.” 

“You wonderful boy!” 

There seemed to be some delectable things in the 
ice chest. 

They sat side by side on the kitchen table, blissfully 
nourishing each other. Birds do it. Love-smitten 
youth does it. 

“To think,” he said, “that you had the nerve to face 
those beasts and tell them what you thought of them !” 

“Darling!” she remonstrated, placing an olive be- 
tween his lips. 

“You should have the Croix de Guerre,” he said in- 
distinctly. 

“All I aspire to is a very plain gold ring,” she said, 
smiling at him sideways. 

And she slipped her hand into his. 

“Are you going back into the army, Jim?” she 
asked. 

“Who said that?” he demanded. 

“I — I heard it repeated.” 

“Not now,” he said. “Unless — ” His eyes narrowed 

366 


THE CRIMSON TIDE 


and he sat swinging his legs with an absent air and 
puckered brows. 

And after a while the same aloof look came into her 
brown eyes, and she swung her slim feet absently. 

Perhaps their remote gaze was fixed on visions of 
a nearing future, brilliant with happiness, gay with 
children’s voices; perhaps they saw farther than that, 
where the light grew sombre and where a shadowed sky 
lowered above a blood-red flood, rising imperceptibly, 
yet ever rising — a stealthy, crawling crimson tide 
spreading westward across the world. 

( 1 ) 















